<!DOCTYPE html>
<html>
<head>
<meta charset="UTF-8">
<title>David Rose Does Believe in SoulMates by BeneficialAddiction</title>
<style type="text/css">

body { background-color: #ffffff; }
.CI {
text-align:center;
margin-top:0px;
margin-bottom:0px;
padding:0px;
}
.center   {text-align: center;}
.cover    {text-align: center;}
.full     {width: 100%; }
.quarter  {width: 25%; }
.smcap    {font-variant: small-caps;}
.u        {text-decoration: underline;}
.bold     {font-weight: bold;}
</style>
</head>
<body>
<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/25601203">David Rose Does Believe in SoulMates</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction'>BeneficialAddiction</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Thing Is... [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Schitt's Creek</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Alexis Rose/Ted Mullins, Alternate Universe - Soulmates, Anxiety, Depression, Drug Use, Drug Withdrawal, Eating Disorders, First Kiss, First Meetings, M/M, Mental Health Issues, Slow Burn, Soulmates, david rose needs a hug, mental health</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>In-Progress</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-07-30</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2021-02-20</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-05 06:27:19</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Mature</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>9</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>23,476</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/25601203</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/BeneficialAddiction/pseuds/BeneficialAddiction</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>The thing is, David actually does believe in soul mates.</b>
  </p>
</div><p>People always seem surprised by this – which, <i>rude.</i> How could he not with the way his parents fit together so perfectly, so utterly devoted to each other, even after all these years, with all their ridiculous flaws? How could he not, when Alexis meets a handsome veterinarian on holiday in the Galapagos islands and grows up, seemingly overnight?</p>
<p>No, David Rose believes in soul mates. </p>
<p>He just... isn’t sure there’s one out there for him anymore.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Patrick Brewer/David Rose</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The Thing Is... [1]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1855537</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>154</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>285</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>1. Chapter 1</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Summary for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
            <p>TW: references to drug abuse, eating disorders, and passive suicidal ideation, as well as a gross out warning for references to vomiting and hangovers.</p><p>David's not in a great place at the moment, but the journey starts with the first step &lt;3</p>
          </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David’s been living in New York for about seven years when his life finally shatters into a million little pieces over the course of one spectacularly horrific evening. He doesn’t remember breaking any mirrors during that time, but to be perfectly honest he can’t remember much of anything for the first two hours he’s awake the next day. He swims up to consciousness in the mid-afternoon with a pounding headache and a half-empty bottle of tequila clutched in his fist, and can’t bear to open his eyes for fear that an errant ray of light will pierce through to his brain and kill him. Some dull throb of anxiety at the back of his mind suggests that might not be such a bad thing, but he’d always hoped to kick the bucket in a more pleasant manner; drowning in a pool-sized mug of coffee for example. </p>
<p>Eventually the nausea and the need to pee force him from his bed, but he manages to keep his eyes shut through that and a cool shower, climbing back out feeling halfway to human again until he catches sight of his reflection. He’s gaunt and pale with dark circles under his sunken eyes, and the sight of his own face brings the disaster that was last night flooding back in a rush. Crashing to his knees for the second time that morning, he bows low to the porcelain god as the last of the previous evening’s bad decisions force their way up his throat, burning the entire time. </p>
<p>Once his stomach is done turning itself inside-out, he takes a minute to catch his breath before pulling himself together; teeth brushed, hair blown out, nine-step skin regimen completed. It takes him more than an hour to work through it, dizzy and light-headed, but he can’t afford to cut corners – not only because he looks hideous but because he has to at least try to scrape together some kind of pride. He’s... <i>hungry,</i> and that doesn’t make any sense because he can’t remember the last time he felt hungry but he can’t think of anything else that will help the unsettling buzz running beneath his skin, so the next step is breakfast no matter how much his hangover argues. </p>
<p>David is careful with his phone as he opens up his favorite delivery app, avoiding the lock-screen full of notifications. There’s a seemingly unending list of missed calls, texts, and voicemails blinking at him, but the mere thought of them makes him flinch. After some distracting scrolling, he opts for a steak and egg bagel, over-medium, from the shop just down the street, plus a side of candied bacon and a large OJ, fat and carbs and sugar to soak up whatever’s left of the alcohol and because at this point, really, who even cares? </p>
<p>This, everything he has, it’s over isn’t it? </p>
<p>There’s something shockingly freeing in that. </p>
<p>He’s dressed and downed a couple of prescription painkillers by the time his breakfast arrives, and he eats it standing over the counter, the egg yolk golden and gooey and dripping down his fingers and oh-so-good. It’s been so long since he’s eaten a real meal – just one more piece of his life that’s gone wrong – that he can only manage half of it before he starts to feel uncomfortably full, but he still shoves the rest of it into his mouth and buries the wrappers out of sight before rinsing his hands and retreating to the couch. </p>
<p>The guilt comes nearly immediately and threatens to overwhelm him; guilt for being hungover, guilt for stuffing his face, guilt for being unproductive and wallowing and falling apart as his eyes start to sting and tears roll down his cheeks. The anxiety follows quickly after, spiraling and spiraling deeper and darker as he tries and fails to stop reliving the worst twenty-four hours of his life. </p>
<p>He’s an <i>idiot.</i> </p>
<p>He should have seen this coming. </p>
<p>The worst part of the whole mess is, he kind of did - he’s <i>always</i> known Sebastian isn’t a good person. </p>
<p>He’s <i>always</i> been unsure if he was really, truly good enough to run his galleries. </p>
<p>He’s... </p>
<p>David swallows hard at the rock in his throat, choking back a sob. </p>
<p>He’s <i>always</i> had the suspicion that he was losing control. </p>
<p>Everything he does, everything he is has become about faking it, lying to himself and everyone around him that he’s still got it, that he’s stable, <i>thriving even...</i> </p>
<p>But he’s not. </p>
<p>Last night had proved that, everything crashing down around his ears in one terrible, awful, very public disaster. </p>
<p>He’d thought feeling his heart crack upon finding his boyfriend fucking two other people that morning had been as pathetic as he could get, but he’d been wrong. </p>
<p>He’d known they weren’t exclusive of course. Sebastian had qualms with the concept of monogamy. David had insisted on labeling it consensual polyamory for his own peace of mind, even though he’d never had plans to seek out additional partners of his own – just one more way he was clinging to that false sense of being in control, of having some say.  Deluded but not delusional, he wasn’t exactly surprised when he found out that Sebastian wasn’t following the very minimal ground rules they'd laid out in the beginning – open communication and the religious use of protective barriers – so it was silly to be so hurt when he’d walked in on it. </p>
<p>Sillier even, that he’d allowed himself to get so worked up that he’d shouted and stormed out again, turning off his phone and disappearing when he was supposed to be doing his first and final walk-through of Sebastian’s newest project prior to its debuting later that night.  </p>
<p>Walking into his gallery a fashionable five minutes late to find his own face staring back at him proved that to be a grave mistake, and that there was much, much further for him to sink. </p>
<p>He doesn’t remember the photos being taken. From the glassiness of his eyes and his complete state of undress, it was safe to assume that he’d been higher than a kite at the time. He never would have consented to such a thing if he were sober, though he doubts even the worst of his substance use could have overcome that particular hurdle. No, Sebastian had photographed him tied to a bed, naked and vulnerable, without any permission at all, and David certainly hadn’t agreed to the images being blown up ten feet tall and hung on the walls for perusal by the general public. </p>
<p>He’d practically seen red upon entering the lobby to the sight of his own ass staring back at him. Sebastian had been schmoozing a group of socialites near the bar, ever-present, apathetic grin on his face, and in that moment David is pretty sure he’d lost all reason. Marching across the room, he’d grabbed Sebastian by the collar of his pretentious-when-worn-indoors flak jacket and twisted hard, reveling in the strangled yelp he’d elicited. Dragging the <i>artiste</i> across the floor, he’d tossed him out in a heap on the filthy, New York sidewalk before turning back inside and promptly pulling the fire alarm. </p>
<p>Less than three minutes later the gallery was empty and his favorite Givenchy sweater was a complete and utter loss, but the overhead sprinklers had done their job and destroyed every single one of the prints. </p>
<p>David sucks in a deep, shaky breath, focusing on the small spark of pride that comes with that one, single part of last night, clinging to it like a life preserver. He’d stood up for himself, he <i>had,</i> for the first time in a long time, and had protected what little there was left of his dignity. The showing had been invitation-only which means his shame had only been witnessed by about thirty-five people and for only a very short amount of time, and thanks to Sebastian’s ridiculous superstitions, no magazines or cameras had been allowed in for the opening. David knows too from past experience that once the art has been installed Sebastian immediately destroys all copies and source-material, something about the transience of beauty and the cheapening of reprints and reproductions. </p>
<p>So at least there’s no chance of him seeing his own naked body splashed across the interweb as soon as he dares open it up. </p>
<p>His <i>name,</i> sure – there's no way he’s going to have escaped some sort of sordid little story about David Rose of the <i>Adelina Galleria</i> having lost his goddamn mind and pulled the fire alarm inside his own gallery, destroying his latest installation and flooding half the building – but at least there won’t be any revenge porn released. </p>
<p>Any <i>more</i> of it anyway.</p>
<p>Breath catching in his throat, he presses his hands hard against his eyes and tries to calm down, his heart pounding as he breaks out in a cold sweat and starts to shake. </p>
<p>He’s safe, he’s safe, he can... </p>
<p>Except he’s not. </p>
<p>It’s <i>worse.</i> </p>
<p>In a burst of anxiety fueled panic-fury, he leaps to his feet and flings his phone against the wall. Luckily sports have never been his thing and it thumps gently against his adorable little accent chair instead so he’s pretty certain the screen is still intact, but in the moment that’s not exactly a comfort. Snatching a throw pillow off the couch he buries his face into the fabric and screams as long and as loud as he can before collapsing, sucking in great, sobbing gulps of air.  </p>
<p>How, <i>how</i> is he meant to do this, how can he... </p>
<p>He can’t even trust his own <i>parents</i> anymore! </p>
<p>He’d called them last night - early this morning really - after he’d dealt with the firetrucks automatically dispatched when the alarm was pulled. They own the lease on the gallery because of course they do; he never could have opened it himself without the start-up money. This meant that they owned the insurance policies too, and he’d wanted to get the water damage under control as soon as possible. David’s father had answered on the first ring which should have warned him off, because that only ever happens when his mother is one set, but he'd bulldozed on ahead in a fit of embarrassed anger and vomited up the whole story like he was sick.</p>
<p>Little had he realized he was on speaker in Television’s Moira Rose’s dressing trailer.</p>
<p>The next thing he knew he was being <i>wailed</i> at by his mother and lectured by his father, who'd revealed in a sudden and uncharacteristic  display of blunt, disappointed honesty that his parents owned far more than just the gallery. </p>
<p>They’d been paying for his <i>patrons</i> for years. </p>
<p>Every piece of art, nearly every ticket sold – all them. </p>
<p>They’d been so sure of his failure that they’d bought him out before he could actually do it, but somehow he’d still managed to prove them right. </p>
<p>David stumbles into the bathroom, sure he’s going to be sick again, but he manages to swallow down the bile and the feeling of complete and utter self-loathing. Despite his shaking hands he manages to get one of the many bottles in the medicine cabinet open and swallows down an X bar too. Within minutes he’s feeling swimmy and a little more relaxed, and it’s probably more shock and a placebo affect than anything, maybe even whatever was leftover in his system from yesterday, but he doesn’t care because at least for the moment he doesn’t want to kill himself. </p>
<p>He just wants out. </p>
<p>Problem is, he doesn’t know what that means. </p>
<p>His father had promised to send someone out today to assess the damage to the gallery, but had told David too that if he wasn’t going to handle the space responsibly he wasn’t going to pay for it any longer.  He has enough money saved to keep it open for a few months, but he has no idea how much time or money repairing the water damage will take up, and if he knows Sebastian it’s likely he’s going to struggle to find artists or customers for a while anyway... </p>
<p>A miserable, half-hysterical laugh bubbles up out of David’s chest. </p>
<p>That is, if he can find any at all. </p>
<p>If he’s <i>ever</i> been able to fill his gallery, with art or viewers, that his parents hadn’t paid, bribed, or manipulated into being there. </p>
<p>Sighing heavily as the Xanax really hits his system, David steps out of the bathroom and slides down the wall onto the floor, tipping slowly onto his side and rolling onto his back on the plush white rug to stare at the ceiling. Beside him his phone vibrates and he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to care even enough to drop his arm to his side and reach for it. He doesn’t want to talk to his parents, doesn’t want to talk to Sebastian, doesn’t want to talk to any of his so-called friends...  </p>
<p>He just. Wants. Out. </p>
<p>Out of his body, out of this mess, out of <i>New York...</i> </p>
<p>And... </p>
<p>And there <i>is</i> one person he would talk to. </p>
<p>One person he’d be willing to answer the phone for, one person he might even... </p>
<p>Might even reach out to. </p>
<p><i>She’s</i> not in New York any more, not in <i>any</i> of this. </p>
<p>She'd gotten out, saved herself, or maybe just <i>been</i> saved, when she'd met her soul mate after falling off a yacht in the Galapagos. </p>
<p>Forcing himself to roll over into the recovery position, David reaches for his phone and pulls up his contacts.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0002"><h2>2. Chapter 2</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Continued trigger warnings for drug and alcohol abuse. Also keep in mind that David exhibits the mindset of an abuse victim, so if this is a trigger for you please proceed with caution. Mind the tags and take care luvs!</p></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>The next three days are a blur of fuzzy numbness, avoiding social media and his constantly buzzing phone. He’d passed out staring at Alexis’ number, wracked with indecision, and hadn’t been able to work up the courage to actually call her when he’d swum back up again, embarrassed and ashamed of himself and what his life had become - especially in the face of everything she had accomplished in the last few years. Instead of owning up to that, he pops a few more Xannies and focuses on the most immediate problems awaiting him, none of which include his anxiety or his addictions or his disorders, and pretends that everything is fine by strictly ignoring ninety-nine percent of his life. </p><p>He lets the insurance adjustor in to the gallery at some ungodly hour on Saturday morning and promptly leaves him to his business, avoiding the mess of the ruined photography displays and retreating into his office. By now there’s a sort of resignation sitting buried, locked away deep inside his chest where it’s safe. He’s done here – he can <i>feel it</i> – whether he wants to be or not, so he collects his binder of contracts and phone numbers along with his sketch book and stuffs them into his shoulder bag. There’s a tiny potted plant in the window that he’d gotten from one of his artists as part of a feng shui exhibit and he decides on a whim to save it, reaching up on his tiptoes to get it down and cradling it against his chest. </p><p>It only takes him four minutes to grab everything he needs out of the place, and then he’s left standing anxiously near the doors while Jake from State Farm finishes his walk-through. </p><p>“You’re covered for flooding, so we’ll pay for the water damage as long as you go through our contractor,” he explains, scribbling something down on his clipboard as David twitchily ushers him through the doors and onto the sidewalk an unending fifteen minutes later. </p><p>“Great, set it up,” he agrees quickly, adjusting the strap of his bag over his shoulder as he locks the doors behind him. “I need it back to normal as soon as possible.” </p><p>“No problem, should be able to get it done this week – electrical all seems to have survived so it’s mostly just the walls and making sure the floors are still sealed.” </p><p>David nods along like he understands, like his head isn’t pounding as he drops his sunglasses back over his eyes despite the overcast day. A card is offered to him and he stuffs it deep into the pocket of his jeans without even a glance. More shop-talk follows that he doesn’t pay any attention to until finally the claims adjuster walks off again down the sidewalk, on to his next appointment. He feels like he can breathe a little easier once the man finally disappears from sight, but that doesn’t mean he doesn’t hyperventilate a little in the backseat of his Uber on the way back to his apartment. </p><p>He thinks he takes a nap after that because the next thing he knows it’s Sunday afternoon and there’s an email in his account from his personal assistant, thanking him for all the opportunities and the lovely personal reference. He has to scroll back to his Sent folder to reassure himself that he’d actually let her know he was closing the gallery. He’s scared to open the document he’d attached but he can’t not, and it may be a little drunkenly effusive in its praise for a professional reference but he’s pretty sure no one but him would notice. Satisfied with one task completed, one decision made, he goes back to sleep. </p><p>Monday, another ungodly early start, but he’s been awake since one am pacing so it matters a little less. He finds a couple of uppers at the back of the medicine cabinet and downs them with some high-octane caffeine before heading across the city to unlock the gallery for the construction workers he finds waiting for him. None of them look happy about his tardiness but he doesn’t care, finding their boss by flashing a Benjamin and handing it over along with the key. The man doesn’t mention David’s shaking hands and takes the key without a fuss, pocketing it along with the cash and promising to call him when the work was finished. </p><p>It doesn’t matter. </p><p>There’s no joy for him here anymore, no peace, and the thought that his beloved nanny Adelina would be so horrifically disappointed in him and what had happened at the gallery he’d named for her is like a knife in his gut. </p><p>He doesn’t think he can bear to step back through those doors again. </p><p>“Take the sign down,” he says, flat and cold, his eyes on the sidewalk. </p><p>He feels numb. </p><p>“Where do you want us to...” </p><p>But he doesn’t care, and he’s already walking away. He doesn’t want her name up there anymore and as long as it’s not, he doesn’t care. It’s over, it’s done, it’s... god, something he’d never wanted it to be, would never have wanted her to see or hear of, and he doesn’t think he could bear the way it feels to step back inside and try to pull everything back together again when the space has been so... violated. </p><p>He goes home and has a panic attack. </p><p>The weirdest part of all of this is that he’s sort of... detached from it all. Despite the anxiety and the fear and the panic, the crushing shame and disappointment, more than anything he feels numb. Probably for the best really, and certainly better than the alternative, but almost scarier than anything else. He hates it, and he loves it, and he wants it to end but he never wants it to end because it’s the only thing keeping him level. It was that numbed-out, resigned sort of anger that had enabled him to throw Sebastian out of the gallery and destroy his photos that night, and he’s still surprised by that, still proud of that. </p><p>It might be the only thing keeping him going right now. </p><p>Well, that and the drugs - he’ll <i>create</i> the numbness if he has too. </p><p>He thinks maybe that’s what he’s been doing all along. </p><p><i>Dad</i> </p><p><i>Dad</i> </p><p><i>Elia – Assistant</i> </p><p><i>Dad</i> </p><p><i>Dad</i> </p><p><i>Dad</i> </p><p><i>Mason Brothers’ Contracting</i> </p><p><i>Dad</i> </p><p><i>Dad</i> </p><p><i>Sebastian Raine...</i> </p><p>Of course. </p><p>It’s ridiculous, but hardly surprising. </p><p>David had never expected him to be angry – Sebastian doesn’t <i>experience</i> anger – but he thinks being turned on by this whole mess is a little unacceptable. Texting him for a meet-up, a <i>hook-up,</i> thinking after everything that David would be willing to <i>‘explore that pain, maybe physically...’</i> </p><p>It’s a joke. </p><p>Because <i>David</i> is a joke.  </p><p>Because he’d <i>let</i> this happen, let all of this build up, let himself be treated... </p><p>He chokes back a sob and squares his shoulders, deleting his messages and missed calls. </p><p>It doesn’t matter. </p><p>He’s David god-damn Rose, and he thinks he needs that invisible crown he likes to pretend to wear <i>now</i> more than ever.  </p><p>If he were sober, he thinks that maybe he’d be surprised by the way he’s handled all this. It’s certainly not his MO to... to fight back. To stand up for himself. If it weren’t for the Xanax and the Oxy and the numbness, he’s pretty sure he would have gone cringing back to Sebastian already, would have gone over to his apartment on the pretext of telling him off but knowing in the back of his mind that that’s not how things would go. The drugged detachment allows for the cool, controlled anger which prevents the pathetic neediness he usually exhibits. </p><p>Easy to keep him running back to the pill bottles and the pot then, because they’re helping to keep him numb. </p><p>Numb – please. </p><p>He feels like he’s lost his mind. </p><p>Panic attacks, hyperventilating, crying, <i>screaming</i> into pillows... none of it stops and none of that is numb. </p><p>His dad keeps trying to ring his phone. </p><p>Half those calls David sleeps through, his phone on silent, and the other half he ignores, silencing the call and deleting the voicemails. </p><p>He’s always felt like a bit of a disappointment to his father. Breaking his nose with a basketball stands out in his mind – he'd never been able or interested in playing sports, not even <i>watching them</i> as a way of bonding with his dad. His hobbies, his art, his interests and aesthetic – none of these were things that Johnny Rose could really understand, and David had never made a big effort to share them with him. He thinks the most they’d ever had in common was his short-lived stint at working for Rose Video, which hadn’t lasted long once he’d started re-arranging the tapes according to his own personal rating system. </p><p>Business, he’d thought, might be the one thing his father could be proud of him for, and so he’d hoped that the gallery, the intersection of the art that he loved and the numbers his father had such a knack for, might do that. </p><p>Finding out that his father hadn’t had the smallest faith in him had been... far more crushing than he’d expected. </p><p>Not that he ever could have imagined that his parents were paying for <i>literally</i> his entire career, but here he is. </p><p>He hadn’t realized that he’d - maybe, subconsciously - thought that it was something that connected him to his father, that might one day bring them closer and make him proud, and now to find out that had all be a lie, bought and paid for... </p><p>He can’t face him. </p><p>He certainly can’t ask him to... to bail him out, not after everything. </p><p>So it’s done, over, ended, for lots of reasons. </p><p>Maybe he’ll go work in some skanky retail store – it’s the least likely place any paparazzi will come looking for him. </p><p>David snorts, cracking up into his bottle of wine. </p><p>He laughs so long and so hard he cries. </p><p>He takes three Benzos knowing that mixing them with alcohol is a supremely stupid idea and passes out on the couch. </p><p>When he wakes up he’s staring down the silly little plant that he’d left in the middle of his coffee table, and it’s wrinkled and soggy and grey looking, and he thinks he probably looks the same way. He feels the same way, like a husk, like all of him is draining out through his feet, the only thing left the wrinkly shell of his skin. Pushing himself upright, a wave of nausea and light-headedness sweeps over him, so he forces himself to nibble on a handful of water crackers he finds in his abandoned kitchen, even though it makes him feel sicker. The pill bottles in the bathroom are empty and he’s smoked his way through the two joints he keeps in a cigar box in his scroll-top desk and he tries not to panic because he doesn’t think he can bear the social interaction it would take to go get more of anything. </p><p>He’s not sure what day it is. Not sure what time it is or what he’s doing or how he’s even doing it at this point to be honest, so when he starts wandering listlessly around his apartment stuffing sweaters into suitcases, he doesn’t question it. He feels like a passenger in his own body, mildly horrified by the way his hands are treating his Rick Owens and his Alexander McQueen, but they don’t seem like his hands or his clothes or his bags, so he just... watches. </p><p>It’s horrible. </p><p>His brain is so fuzzed out that he’s not actively thinking, and while that’s a state that he’s fairly familiar with it, he’s more accustomed to feeling like this when the lights and the music of a club are pounding all around him, when the bodies of strangers he’ll never see again are holding him up and he’s moving to a rhythm without caring what they think. Here alone it seems to have taken control of him instead, and a small part of him prays that his survival instincts or his caveman brain or whatever the hell is driving now knows what it’s doing. </p><p>It must, at least a little, because when he turns around and finds himself in the middle of an airport, clutching his passport and that stupid little dying plant, a private charter is waiting for him. He takes his last two emergency Xanax, makes sure someone has ferried his bags from the cab to the belly of the jet, and boards without honestly even knowing where he’s headed. He collapses into his seat and belts himself in, shoving his earbuds into his ears and putting on a sleep mask before the plane has even taken off. </p><p>He sleeps. </p><p>He sleeps, and he doesn’t know how he keeps waking up exhausted. </p><p>Less than two hours later he stumbles back off the plane one country and an entire world away in a small airport outside of a small town that he’s never seen but has been hearing about for years, since he was a temperamental child with parents who really didn’t know how to make things better. Then it’s a cab and a forty-five minute drive, and when they pass the sign coming in to Schitt’s Creek David’s laugh is cracked and rusty and half-hysterical. </p><p>He and his bags are deposited on the sidewalk in front of a run-down little motel building, grotty and falling apart, like nothing he’s ever seen before in his life and his breath catches in his throat. He slaps a hand over his mouth, sucks back a sob as he squeezes his eyes shut tight, trying not to... just trying not to. Hands shaking, he forces himself to dig his phone out of his pocket, to call his sister, but a part of him is afraid that even moving will cause his entire being to shatter. </p><p>It’s a lifetime – maybe two whole minutes – before he manages to do it, tapping on the one, single contact saved to his favorites. His heart pounds in his chest and he can’t breathe as he waits for the call to connect, <i>prays</i> that it will, but then Alexis’ voice is bubbling through the phone like nothing in the world is wrong and David <i>sobs.</i> </p><p>“David?” she asks hesitantly after a stunned pause, concern coloring her voice. “David, are you ok?” </p><p>“I... Lexy?” </p><p>And then the ground rushes up to meet him. </p><p>His last thought as his knees give is to worry about what the cracked, filthy sidewalk will do to his leather jacket but his whole body hurts too much for him to even try to save it.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0003"><h2>3. Chapter 3</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“Oh my god, David? <i>David! Babe!”</i> </p>
<p>Alexis’ voice coming from his phone, still clutched in his hand, brings him up half a second later, but his head is spinning and he can’t make his limbs work. </p>
<p><i>‘Incorrect,’</i> he thinks - he’s no one’s babe, certainly not his sister’s. </p>
<p>Flat out on his back staring up at a brilliant blue sky, he has half a second to be grateful that at least it’s not raining before dark hair and dark eyes and dark flannel block out the view. </p>
<p>“You ok?” an unconcerned voice drawls, and David blinks, slowly, stupidly. </p>
<p>Does he look ok? </p>
<p>Does one generally lie in a disgusting parking lot if one <i>is,</i> in fact, <i>ok?</i> </p>
<p>But he doesn’t have the energy to snark. </p>
<p>“David? David can you hear me? Where are you?!” </p>
<p>The woman above him frowns, leans down and plucks his phone from his hand. He makes some small noise of protest against the theft, which elicits an unimpressed scoff, before she glances at the screen and her eyes go wide with shock, flicking rapidly between David’s face and the phone. </p>
<p>“Alexis?” she asks with confusion and surprise as she brings the phone to her ear, but not nearly enough in David’s opinion because how does she know his sister? </p>
<p><i>“Stevie?!”</i> Alexis screeches, and David flinches away from the shrill note of panic in her voice. </p>
<p>“No, he’s here at the motel,” the girl above him – <i>Stevie</i> – replies after a moment’s pause. “I mean, I’m pretty sure? Unless he left this guy flat-out in the parking lot and dropped his phone in the process.” </p>
<p>David groans as a wave of nausea sweeps over him and he rolls over onto his hands and knees – that's just <i>stupid,</i> that’s... </p>
<p>“I don’t know; tall, dark, and pretentious?” Stevie says, and David snaps his head up to glare at her, immediately regretting the action when pain spikes through his skull. “Lots of eyebrows. Leather jacket.” </p>
<p>“She knows what I fucking look like,” he growls, pushing up onto his toes in a crouch and leaning his head down between his knees. </p>
<p>“I don’t <i>know</i> Alexis; I just looked out the window when the cab took off and saw him pass out on the sidewalk!” </p>
<p>David hisses as her voice goes low and sharp, leaning away from the sound. Very suddenly there’s a warm hand on his forehead, gripping his hair and forcing his head back so that she can look at him straight-on, tilting his head side-to-side with eyes that are probably seeing way too much. </p>
<p>“Well he’s definitely high,” she says with the simple confidence of someone who knows what they’re talking about. “He’s not looking too great to be honest.” </p>
<p>“Fuck you!” David snarls, batting her hand away, but she just smirks at him. </p>
<p>“Nah, I’ll wait,” she says into the phone, ignoring his death glare. “This is the most entertainment we’ve had here since my cousins were in town.” </p>
<p>After that David thinks maybe he blanks out for a few seconds, because his sister apparently doesn't want to talk to <i>him</i> anymore. His phone is being stuck back in his jacket pocket by <i>very</i> forward hands, and then the girl – Stevie, <i>Stevie,</i> focus David – is sitting down in front of him, crossing her legs and throwing her shoulders back. </p>
<p>“Hi!” she says perkily with a shark-like grin, and David scowls. “I’m Stevie. So you’re David huh?” </p>
<p>“Why do I feel like that means more to you than it should?” he asks, his throat hoarse and his mouth suddenly dry as cotton. </p>
<p>“Probably because it does,” she says simply, her grin broadening. “Bad trip?” </p>
<p>“The fucking cab smelled like cigarettes and the driver missed our turn-off,” he bitches, knowing that’s not what she means. “What do you think?” </p>
<p>He's saved the indignity of what would no-doubt be her scathing response by a well-worn minivan pulling into the motel driveway. She turns to watch it park and her shoulders drop like she could somehow be relieved by this, when David would just really prefer his shame not to be witnessed by anyone further. The last thing he needs is more strangers seeing... all <i>this,</i> but then, to his everlasting shock, his sister comes spilling out of the passenger seat. She’s all golden hair and flouncy boho dress, the sun gleaming off her many bangles and bracelets, and she looks so exactly like she used to that another sob escapes him unbidden. </p>
<p>“David?!” she warbles, her voice shaking the way it does when she’s really, truly scared. </p>
<p>She actually stumbles on her three-inch platform sandals when she catches sight of him, really <i>looks</i> at him, and if that doesn’t make him want to shrivel up and die he doesn’t know what will. </p>
<p>Alexis hasn’t tripped in heels since she was eight. </p>
<p>“David what happened?!” she demands, crouching down in front of him even as a cute little blonde man exits the van behind her and jogs over. “How did you get here?!” </p>
<p>“I don’t...” he starts, because he <i>doesn’t</i> know, but admitting the lack of <i>how</i> somehow seems worse than all the <i>why.</i> “Lexy...” </p>
<p>Alexis blanches, the color draining from her face at the sound of her old nickname, the one he hasn’t used in years because he’s only ever used it when she’s come crawling into his bed at night trembling with tears on her cheeks, just home from one of her more harrowing adventures. </p>
<p>Now he’s gone and used it twice in a handful of minutes, and it’s funny somehow in a really sad sort of way because he’s finally the one come looking for comfort and safety after... after... </p>
<p>Another fucking sob. </p>
<p>He collapses against Alexis’ chest as she pulls him in close, wrapping her arms around him tight, and they’ve never done this - at least not outside of those secret, late-night cuddles that neither of them ever spoke of. They don’t hug, not like this, not with Alexis holding on to him harder than she ever has, than he’s ever <i>felt,</i> in full-view of anyone who might walk by with two strangers standing over them looking more shocked and worried now than intrigued. </p>
<p>“Oh god, I'm a disaster,” he gulps out, horrified, pulling back and pretending to himself that wiping his hands across his face and running his fingers through his hair will fix anything. “I...” </p>
<p>And then he’s trying to stand up and find his footing but his balance is totally fucked and his head still feels like it’s ready to float of his shoulders and he wobbles precariously, attempting another swan dive toward the pavement. </p>
<p>“Woah, nope, hold on there bud! Let’s get you inside maybe, huh?” </p>
<p>David blinks as he’s swung upright again, one of his arms getting wrapped around the shoulders of the unacceptably peppy little blonde at his side. Alexis is fluttering around in front of them, her forehead wrinkled the way it goes when she’s worried, and he hates that look but he doesn’t... </p>
<p>He doesn’t think he’s going to make it inside. </p>
<p>Turning away, he stumbles off the sidewalk into the grass, hunching over and wrapping his arms around his abdomen as he dry heaves. Nothing comes up - god, when was the last time he ate, drank anything but wine? - but it <i>hurts</i> and it stings the back of his throat. He can’t breathe and he’s pretty sure this is another panic attack, and a broken little laugh forces its way out of his mouth when he thinks back to how he used to believe that those were a made-up thing, just a PR spin for celebrities behaving badly. </p>
<p>Not that he hasn’t been behaving badly, just... this is a lot <i>more.</i> </p>
<p>“Babe, he looks like he’s having a heart attack!” Alexis says from somewhere above him, and David starts to shake his head vehemently even as he clutches at his chest. “We should call one of those taxis to the hospital!” </p>
<p>“That’s an ambulance babe, and he’s not having a heart attack, I promise.” </p>
<p>The blonde – nice muscles, far too cheery, must be Ted – crouches down in front of him and tries to catch his gaze, but thankfully doesn’t touch him. </p>
<p>“Hey bud, I need you to take a couple slow breaths for me ok?” he says, and David’s brain and David’s racing heart and David’s hyperventilating actually stop for a whole second as he turns to glare at him.  </p>
<p>If it were that fucking easy wouldn’t he be doing it already?! </p>
<p>“There you go!” he praises with a grin, and David realizes that in his frustration he’s actually held his breath a minute, reset himself. “Ok, a couple more alright? Just count four beats in and four beats out.” </p>
<p>David squeezes his eyes shut tight, wraps his arms up over his head, trying to block out his voice. </p>
<p>This was stupid, <i>stupid,</i> he should have stayed in New York! He doesn’t want to be around people right now, doesn’t want to be in a place he doesn’t know around <i>people</i> he doesn’t know and he doesn’t even know <i>Alexis</i> anymore, can’t remember the last time they were in the same physical space. She’s changed so much since he’d last seen her, since she met this guy who he isn’t even sure <i>is</i> who David thinks he is, and there’s no one left to him and <i>nothing</i> left to him and... </p>
<p>“David, what’s going on?” </p>
<p>Alexis’ voice is soft and colored with worry, her hand warm and light on his shoulder. </p>
<p>“I don’t... feel very well,” he manages, and then he’s really puking into the grass, throwing up nothing but the stomach acid that’s slowly been giving him an ulcer over the last week. </p>
<p>“Alright, let’s get him out of the sun,” Ted urges, helping him to his feet again, very nearly taking all David’s weight despite their considerable height difference. “We’ll get you fixed right up.” </p>
<p>“Don’t worry David, Ted’s a doctor,” Alexis reassures, still flitting around them as David is carted inside like an overgrown suitcase. “But, like, for cute little...” </p>
<p>“Alexis?” Ted cuts her off, high and a little sharp and far too close to David’s ear, “Could you get the door?” </p>
<p>There’s some rummaging and rearranging as Stevie apparently darts forward with a ring of keys to unlock a door, then David’s being pulled into a blissfully dark room that smells far too stale and musty for comfort. He’s deposited gently onto what might generously be called a bed, narrow and lumpy with a scratchy duvet, but to his own shock and horror, in that moment, he doesn’t care at all. There’s murmuring around him as David sinks over onto his side, curling up around his own stomach, and then there’s a trash can being placed near his head and the sound of running water and then someone - Alexis? - is wiping a cool, damp cloth over his forehead and the back of his neck. </p>
<p><i>“Pat</i> the face,” he whines under his breath, tossing out a hand to shoo her away, and above him Alexis scoffs. </p>
<p><i>“Ew David,</i> you look like you haven’t even <i>showered</i> in a week – what are you complaining about?” </p>
<p>God, <i>has</i> he? </p>
<p>David shivers, curls up tighter in an attempt to... to hide, maybe. </p>
<p>“Don’t worry bud, let’s just get you...” </p>
<p>A minute later a warm, heavy throw is draped over him and tucked in, thread count far too low, and steady hands are unlacing his shoes and pulling them off. The exhaustion that always comes after a panic attack, that floaty sense of not really caring starts to seep in and he leaves his body a little, floating somewhere above himself. </p>
<p>“David? David!” </p>
<p>Alexis is shrill and his head is pounding and it hurts to even <i>think</i> about snarking back at her, so David just huffs and burrows deeper into his blanket, pulling the rough material up around his face. It smells faintly like cigarettes and cheap laundry detergent, but it’s warm and it’s <i>near</i> in a way that not a lot has been recently, and he lets his body sag against the creaky mattress underneath him. </p>
<p>“Relax babe,” someone murmurs nearby, soft and soothing. “Let’s just... give it a minute.” </p>
<p>“But babe, <i>look at him.</i> This isn’t normal, this isn’t <i>David!</i> My brother wouldn’t be caught dead in this motel, let alone in Schitt’s Creek. No offense Stevie.” </p>
<p>“None taken,” a voice replies sarcastically, even though David definitely agrees with the statement and thinks that offense very much <i>should</i> be taken. </p>
<p>“I don’t think David’s really... home at the moment Alexis.” </p>
<p>“Well <i>obviously</i> Ted; he lives in...” </p>
<p>“No, I mean...” </p>
<p>The sentence trails off and David can practically see the gestures, the little hand-motions of <i>high-drunk-crazy way-too-much</i> that have followed him around for most of his life. </p>
<p>“Yeah, no, he’s definitely high Alexis,” Stevie says, and it’s strange but David relaxes just a little at the lack of judgement in her voice. </p>
<p>Some small part of him feels like he should be sitting up, like he should at least be part of the conversation if not defending himself, but this is his sister, and Stevie who doesn’t seem to care, and Ted who maybe knows what he’s talking about if he’s a doctor, so that... that’s ok. </p>
<p>The whispering above and around him continues, the worry that he hates so much to hear in Alexis’ voice prickling at him like needles he can’t bat away. </p>
<p>“He can stay here,” someone says, and no, David thinks as he sinks deeper into the nothing – not correct. “It’s fine, we don’t need the room.” </p>
<p>“I’ll take the other bed,” someone else says. “I think we should keep an eye on him for a while.” </p>
<p>Words like <i>detox</i> and <i>withdrawal</i> float around in the air above him but he can’t muster the energy to be indignant. He’s half asleep, or half-passed out, and really in the end it doesn’t matter because he couldn’t claw his way back now if he tried. The voices around him are all melting together and dissolving into the darkness, everything pushing down on him like a weight, and the last thing that he’s aware of as he loses consciousness is the dip of the bed near his shoulder and small, slender fingers threading gently into his hair.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0004"><h2>4. Chapter 4</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Headache, blurry vision, muscle pain, tremors – David has done the detox thing before. </p>
<p>He doesn’t call himself an addict because he’s always looked at his drug use as more of a binge problem than a lasting, chronic one, but here he is. </p>
<p>Coming off Xanax is never fun and he spends what feels an eternity drifting in and out of restless sleep. He shakes and shivers and groans into the nothingness, flinching away from the sunlight streaming in around the dingy blinds over the window until night falls and everything goes blessedly dark. His mind spins in useless circles, doing swoopy loop-de-loops that make him nauseas and stop him from pinning down any one coherent thought. </p>
<p>Burrowing deeper into the covers that have been drawn up around him, he tries to cling to the warmth and the safety of being behind a locked door, no matter how rickety. Every once in a while he registers the sound of a television, the quiet click of laptop keys, the low murmur of Alexis’ voice, and it’s just enough to lull him back into his state of half-conscious misery before the anxiety can grab hold. </p>
<p>Sweating, panic, palpitations – he knows what’s coming and he dreads it. </p>
<p>He sleeps terribly, due in no small part to the snuffly snores coming from the bed next to his and the rough hands that occasionally swipe over his forehead, press to the pulse points on his wrists. At one point he’s pretty sure he hallucinates the cold of a stethoscope pressed to his chest, but that’s ridiculous, that doesn’t... </p>
<p>Doesn’t make any sense. </p>
<p>He dreams, and there’s nothing about Sebastian or his pictures or his failed gallery in it, but the anxiety and the dread and the guilt are still there.  </p>
<p><i>Flashes of red hair. </i> </p>
<p><i>Shades of blue... and blue... and blue.</i> </p>
<p><i>A feeling of wrongness so strong and all-encompassing that he can’t breathe, and he feels trapped beneath the crushing weight of...</i> </p>
<p>But then he wakes up. </p>
<p>Panting, gross, twisted up in his jacket and the bedsheets, and pretty sure he’s about to be sick again. </p>
<p>He makes it to the bathroom just in time and is busy enough trying not to throw up his spleen that he doesn’t even register how far below acceptable the accommodations are. This fortunate state of affairs only lasts till he’s caught his breath and then he has to keep his eyes shut just to convince himself to stay in there another second, let alone to start the shower. There’s no product in there, not even those little paper-wrapped slivers of soap you’re supposed to get at a motel, but he doesn’t think he can stand being in his clothes another minute, to say nothing of his own skin. </p>
<p>He leaves his jacket and his tee crumpled on the floor, which more than anything shows the true state of David Rose at the present moment. He yelps stepping into the shower because the water is viciously hot and stings like needles on his back and shoulders, then immediately goes cold when he tries to adjust it. Giving up because he just doesn’t care, he stands underneath the spray and laughs at the thought that the pressure is as pathetic as he is. </p>
<p>“David? David are you ok in there?!” </p>
<p>“Oh my goddddd!” he groans loudly, dropping his head back.  </p>
<p>“Ew David!” </p>
<p>“Eat glass Alexis!” </p>
<p>“I just wanted to make sure you didn’t like, pass out in there David!”  </p>
<p>A low murmur rumbles outside the bathroom and the next thing he knows there’s a tap on the door and someone is stepping inside. </p>
<p>“Alexis get out!” he shrieks, backing against the scummy wall and reaching down to cover himself despite the solid beige shower curtain. </p>
<p>“Not actually Alexis,” a distinctly male voice says, and David feels all the blood in his body drain to his feet in horror. “But maybe that’s better huh?” </p>
<p>“Not better!” he snaps, and the voice beyond the curtain chuckles. </p>
<p>“Sorry bud. Just thought you’d need a towel at some point. I’ve got some shampoo and shower gel too if you want.” </p>
<p>David bites his lip and argues with himself – grateful for the offer and still offended that his... sister’s <i>person</i> had taken it upon himself to just barge into David’s shower. </p>
<p>Practicality wins out and he sticks his hand from behind the curtain, waiting until a plastic bottle is pressed into it to offer his thanks. He very nearly changes his mind when he pulls the bottle back inside and almost drops it in disgust, but manages to choke it back and mutter some false-gratitude for the generic drugs store soaps anyway. </p>
<p>“No problem big guy,” the disembodied voice says. “I’m Ted by the way. I know we haven’t really had the chance to be formally introduced yet, but Alexis has told me...” </p>
<p>“Um, Ted?” David interrupts, his eyes squeezed shut tight and his face tipped up to the ceiling, entirely uninterested in anything Alexis has told him about who David is, “Could we maybe finish this later?” </p>
<p>“Oh sure, of course!” Ted chirps, cheerful and apparently unbothered. “Just let me know if you need anything else!” </p>
<p>“A lobotomy?” David mutters as Ted pulls the door shut behind him.  </p>
<p>That might help. </p>
<p>Alexis said he was a doctor, he could probably do it, right? </p>
<p>Sighing, he grabs the rough facecloth that was hanging over the towel bar at the back of the shower and quickly scrubs off, praying to a god he doesn’t believe in that it’s clean and not left over from the previous guest of this particular motel room. He’s too rough on his face, his arms and shoulders, but the scraping burn helps warm him up from the chill of the water. He actually feels better after, despite the cold and the shitty pressure and the way his skin is already drying out from the awful shower gel, and that thought is almost too horrible to contemplate so he forces it down along with his headache by sheer power of will. </p>
<p>Doesn’t mean he’s strong enough to meet his own gaze in the spotty, cracked mirror above the sink. </p>
<p>Wrapping the rough, off-white towel around his waist, he gathers up his clothes and takes a deep breath, tries to center himself. He’s been an anxious individual all his life, so he hasn’t come this far without learning how to mask it – with or without the drugs. Gathering his false-confidence around himself like armor, he drops his shoulders and steps back out of the bathroom. </p>
<p>“Why are you still here?” he grumbles, because Alexis is perched on the side of the second bed worrying at her cuticles and because it’s what David would say if things were different. </p>
<p>“Oh my god David, don’t be such a brat!” she snaps back, slapping her hands against the bedspread. “Why are <i>you</i> here?” </p>
<p>He doesn’t really know, and even if he did that’s probably the last question he’d be ready to answer right now so he tosses his dirty clothes onto the bed beside her and crosses over to the second one, the one closest to the door. </p>
<p>Leave it to Alexis to be concerned about all the wrong things – it would have hardly mattered how much alcohol or Xanax he’d downed on the way here if he’d been murdered by a serial killer in the night. What he remembers of the motel’s façade from yesterday doesn’t fill him with confidence that it couldn’t have happened. </p>
<p>Moving slowly, because his whole body aches and he wants to give his sister – and Ted, ugh – the time to shield their eyes, he rummages around one of his bags that had been piled unceremoniously in the corner and pulls out a pair of drop-crotch joggers and a sweater, one with long sleeves and a fleecy-soft material on the inside. The fact that he’s identifying it in those terms and not the name of the designer is physically painful to him, but by the time he’s got his clothes pulled on and his sister has stopped shrieking at him he’s feeling better with the comforting warmth wrapped around him. </p>
<p>He’s tired, wants to crawl back into bed and just lay there, maybe pop a pill and cry a bit, but he’s trying to pretend he’s ok. </p>
<p>Grabbing his phone from the nightstand, he affects a flounce and throws himself down at the little dinette table in the middle of the room, crossing his legs and flicking determinedly through his missed calls to clear them. </p>
<p><i>Dad</i> </p>
<p><i>Dad</i> </p>
<p><i>Dad</i> </p>
<p><i>Sebastian</i> </p>
<p>David sighs and looks away, only to find himself staring at the little potted plant that had somehow made it with him all the way from New York. It’s looking a little shriveled around the edges, a little dried up, and he reaches out with hesitant fingers to trace over one of the cracked, brittle leaves. </p>
<p>“I think it’s dying,” he says nonsensically, without meaning to or really understanding what he’s said. </p>
<p>“Nah, not dying,” Ted replies quietly from where he’s sitting across the table, looking at David with eyes that are too kind for him. “Just needs a little bit of TLC I think.” </p>
<p>“Um, I’m pretty sure you mean THC,” David corrects in a breezy tone. </p>
<p>Ted’s face does something weird where it sort of crinkles up, like he’s amused, horrified, and concerned all at once. </p>
<p>“Nope, definitely mean TLC,” he says, “Tender loving care. I'm uh... not sure another drug would actually be a great decision for you right now anyway.” </p>
<p>“I’m not an <i>addict,”</i> David snaps, flushing with the heat of sudden anger and shame. </p>
<p>“He never said you <i>were</i> David,” Alexis huffs beside him, flicking a hand in his direction. “What did you take anyway? You didn’t snort anything you got at one of Lindsay Lohan’s parties did you – I warned you what happened last time.” </p>
<p>“I didn’t <i>snort</i> anything,” he snarls through gritted teeth. </p>
<p>He doesn’t mention any of the things he’s drunk, or swallowed, or otherwise ingested, and he knows she isn’t talking about the marijuana. </p>
<p>Alexis stares at him with flinty eyes and pursed lips, the same expression she’d worn when she’d forced him to stop flirting with Dave Franco by threatening to tell OK! that he still had a childhood stuffed animal, all so that she could flirt with him herself. </p>
<p>It’s a challenge, a warning, and one he knows not to ignore. </p>
<p>“Oh my god, it was just some X- fall off a bridge please,” he huffs with exasperation, something he absolutely does not feel. </p>
<p>He can tell from the look on her face that she’s guessing about the wine that had gone along with it, and the weed, and the Oxy, and maybe even the not-eating and the not-sleeping and... well, everything else. </p>
<p>Alexis is a lot of things, but stupid isn’t one of them. </p>
<p>“Maybe, but you weren’t doing so good last night bud,” Ted says gently. "Panic, heart palpitations, sweating...” </p>
<p>“Yeah, I have anxiety, panic attacks are a thing,” he says defensively. </p>
<p>“Oh David, you know those aren’t real right?” Alexis murmurs softly, reaching out a hand like she can touch him from this far away. </p>
<p>“Yeah I thought that too,” he explains, “But apparently they are and I think I’ve been having one for the last week.” </p>
<p>“David, have you talked to someone about this?” Ted asks, leaning forward in his seat. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry, do I know you?” he snips. </p>
<p>“Oh my god David!” Alexis growls. “This is Ted, you <i>know</i> that. I’ve sent you pictures!” </p>
<p>“It’s ok babe,” Ted soothes, standing up to come around the edge of the table and extend his hand. “It’s good to finally meet you in person David.” </p>
<p>“Is it though?” he argues snarkily. </p>
<p>But... </p>
<p>Ted’s actually been really decent about all this. </p>
<p>Had apparently even stayed in this shitty motel over night to make sure that David’s heart didn’t explode in his sleep. </p>
<p>That’s more than most people have done for David in his life, so he shakes Ted’s hand and drops his eyes in a show of honest contrition as he mumbles a pained thank you. </p>
<p>Ted grins and offers some platitudes full of ridiculous puns that David doesn’t really pay any attention to, and then he’s kissing Alexis on the forehead, murmuring to her quietly, and slipping out of the room. David watches all this in silence, full of mixed and melancholy feelings, seeing for himself for the very first time how different Alexis really is. Before she wouldn’t have accepted such casual affection from a man, wouldn’t have held his hands so earnestly before he’d moved away. She certainly wouldn’t have come racing up in a minivan to his rescue, let alone stayed overnight in... a place like this, just to watch over him. </p>
<p>Swallowing the lump in his throat that hadn’t been there a moment ago, he forces himself up out of the chair and over to the bed again, which has shockingly been made up with fresh sheets and a clean pillowcase. </p>
<p>“Stevie,” Alexis explains with a shrug when David glances over at her in confusion. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” he mutters under his breath, careful to speak too lowly for her to hear. </p>
<p>Is there anyone else he could invite in to witness his mess? </p>
<p>Dropping onto his back he throws his arm over his face, trying to block out the light streaming in the window, whose blinds have mysteriously and cruelly been flung open. He only means to lie there a moment – it was just for the dramatics really, to emphasize his displeasure – but the longer he stays there, mere seconds, the more and more likely it seems he’ll stay. His whole body sags against the mattress and he feels like he’s sinking into it, too heavy and yet weightless enough to float away if he’s not careful, all at the same time. </p>
<p>He doesn’t even realize he’s falling back to sleep until he’s jerked awake a moment later by Alexis calling his name, as softly and timidly and hesitantly as he’s ever heard. </p>
<p>“David?” </p>
<p>“Mmm?” he grumbles, dragging himself back from the brink of the blackness. </p>
<p>“Will you... I mean, do you want to tell me what happened?" </p>
<p>And well... </p>
<p>She wouldn’t have asked before. </p>
<p>Before she would have just demanded, or badgered and poked until he blurted everything out in a fit of frustration, or gone to the internet and all her underworldly connections to figure it out for herself. </p>
<p>“I’m selling the gallery,” he finally manages, several minutes later, and to his horror his voice cracks, full of pain and tears. </p>
<p>Silence follows, until suddenly the world tips as Alexis sits down near his shoulder and puts her fingers back into his hair. </p>
<p>“Oh David,” she murmurs, hurting – for <i>him</i> – because she knows he would never sell his gallery. </p>
<p>Or at least he <i>thought</i> he would never sell his gallery. </p>
<p>He’s beginning to think it was a different David entirely that believed that, that felt that way. </p>
<p>“I’m selling the gallery,” he says again, this time a dry, broken whisper. </p>
<p>It’s the first time he’s said it out loud, the first time the decision has felt final, and with it comes an unmooring that is completely and utterly terrifying, his entire world set adrift and turned upside down. Unsure of what that means for him, with no idea what comes next, he bursts into tears and curls up into a tight little ball, his face pressed against Alexis’ side and his hand fisted in the skirt of her dress just above her knee. She coos and murmurs to him, sings softly in a jerky voice that their mother would be shocked by, but it’s the thought and that comfort and the care that matter, and eventually it lulls him off to sleep again, to toss and turn with nightmares of being stuck in a circling loop of expectations he can’t live up to.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0005"><h2>5. Chapter 5</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>“...serious David, Ted says you have to get up now.” </p>
<p>“Tell Ted to g’way,” David grumbles, rolling over onto his other side and trying to bury his face in the scratchy pillow beneath his cheek. </p>
<p>“Um, he’s not <i>here</i> David, obviously,” Alexis huffs. “He’s at the clinic. He said he’d come back if he needed to though; it’s not a surgery day. He just has a bunch of, like, cute little puppies to give shots to.” </p>
<p><i>“What?!”</i> </p>
<p>Now fully awake, David whips upright to turn the full strength of his glare in his sister’s direction, but apparently his screech had been enough to send her stumbling back in surprise. </p>
<p><i>“What</i> David?!” she demands, her hands held up near her chin, wrists limp. </p>
<p>“He’s a <i>vet?!”</i> </p>
<p>“Ugh, I told you that already,” she scoffs. </p>
<p>David opens his mouth, already ramping up an impassioned speech about how incorrect it was for her to have him treated by an animal doctor, but her shoulders suddenly slump and she drops her gaze to the floor and starts picking at her fingernails, looking smaller and more unsure than he’s seen her since childhood. </p>
<p>“David... do you not like him?” she asks hesitantly, at once like she cares about his opinion and like she’s terrified of it. “I know we don’t talk a lot, but I <i>did</i> text you. I <i>did</i> tell you about him.” </p>
<p>And well, David knows he’s... kind of a bad person, in a lot of ways. </p>
<p>But... </p>
<p>He’d never wanted to be a bad person to Alexis. </p>
<p>“Sorry,” he says throatily, rubbing his hands over his face as he tries to... pull himself together somehow. “I know you did. I just...” </p>
<p>Hadn’t been paying attention. </p>
<p>Had his own things going on. </p>
<p>Had been so violently, painfully jealous of her having found her soulmate that he’d deleted half her texts and only glanced over the others after offering her that first, perfunctory congratulations. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry Alexis.” </p>
<p>It must come out more sincerely than even he had meant it to, because when Alexis looks up at him her eyes are wide and shiny and she looks like she’s about to cry. The next thing he knows she’s dragged him up off the bed and is wrapped around him in a hug, and her thin shoulders shake when he loops his arms around her. There's something so familiar here – the scent of her conditioner, the sharp pinch of her jewelry wherever they’re touching – that he feels himself start to tear up too. </p>
<p>But he doesn’t want that. </p>
<p>Pulling back he swipes at his cheeks, and is suddenly struck but the inexplicable urge to... to go for a run, to run <i>away.</i>  </p>
<p>But that doesn’t make any sense because David doesn’t run, and he’s sort of <i>already</i> run away. </p>
<p>Crushing the bizarre impulse, he reaches for his haughty, aloof, no-fucks-to-give attitude and retreats back into the safety of his armor. </p>
<p>“What time is it?” he demands, because if she’s woken him up before noon he’ll be pissed. </p>
<p>He knows it’s not before noon – it had been morning the last time he’d gotten up, too early for consciousness let alone the shower and the outfit he’d forced himself into.  </p>
<p>“Ugh, it’s after <i>lunch</i> David, you slept forever!” Alexis complains, and that sounds more like the Alexis he knows, like she’s trying to... play along. “Let’s go – Ted says you need to drink something and walk around.” </p>
<p>“Oh, did Ted say? Will I need my leash and collar?” he asks sweetly, even as he heads to the bathroom to freshen up. </p>
<p>“Ew David!” Alexis shrieks, and he starts to feel the teensiest bit better. </p>
<p>She ends up looping her elbow through his as she drags him out of the motel and into the street, his sunglasses down firmly over his eyes. Oddly enough it does help getting to move and stretch his legs, and he doesn’t feel so <i>stale</i> being out in the sun with a light breeze playing over his face and the back of his neck. Alexis babbles happily as they walk, telling him all about the town of Schitt’s Creek and all the little businesses they pass once they’ve turned onto what serves as main street, but he mostly doesn’t listen, just letting the sound of her voice wash over him instead. There’s a strange security he wasn’t quite expecting in having her near, and it hits him that even though he’d stopped worrying about her being kidnapped by foreign drug moguls since she’d landed here, he hadn’t stopped <i>worrying</i> about her. </p>
<p>Eventually they arrive at the Café Tropical and Alexis pulls him inside despite his protests - the name doesn’t seem to bode well. A part of him is still feeling a queasy, greasy sort of guilt over the egg sandwich, however long ago <i>that</i> was, so while a part of his brain is screaming at him that a burger and fries with a side of mozzarella sticks and a chocolate milkshake to wash it down would solve all his problems, the other part of his brain is reminding him of exactly what a fuck-up he’s made of this whole thing and could he please at least <i>try</i> not to make it worse.  </p>
<p>The place is about half-full, not terribly crowded, and it seems clean and bright enough, so he lets himself be pushed into a booth along the wall without too much of a fuss. He thinks the way that Alexis folds open the menu – and then folds it open again, and then again – is meant to cheer him up somehow, to make him laugh, but the sense of dread blocking up his throat is too big to fit a laugh around. </p>
<p>“What do you want to eat?” Alexis asks, her eyes on the tacky, laminate atlas in front of her. “I’ll help you find it – this thing covers pretty much the world.” </p>
<p>“I’m fine,” he says softly, barely a murmur, and it’s mostly gentle, not the aggressive snap he wants to throw her way, so he counts it as a success until she flicks her gaze up at him with a familiar, mulish set to her mouth. </p>
<p>“You haven’t eaten since you got here David,” she argues, and his eyes sting. </p>
<p><i>She</i> at least is <i>not</i> gentle. </p>
<p>She <i>doesn’t</i> murmur, <i>doesn’t</i> try to coddle. </p>
<p>Alexis has never been one to walk around on eggshells. </p>
<p>No, Alexis snaps and shows her teeth, like that vicious little dog Paris Hilton had, all attitude in a tiny, adorable package, and he could cry he’s so grateful that she’s not treating him any differently. </p>
<p>Doesn’t mean he wants anything to eat. </p>
<p>“Hey Alexis!” </p>
<p>David startles out of the little moment he’d been having, knocking his knee against the underside of the table he jumps so hard. A perky brunette is bouncing on her toes at his elbow, wearing an apron and a little gold badge that reads <i>Twyla.</i> She’s holding a pen poised over a notepad, so he can only imagine she’s their waiter. </p>
<p>“Hey Twy!” Alexis says, cheerfully enough that David immediately re-evaluates that assessment – not <i>just</i> a waiter then, a... friend? “This is my brother David.” </p>
<p>“Nice to meet you,” Twyla says sweetly, like she actually means it. </p>
<p>He hums in acknowledgement, barely manages to get half a smile onto the corner of his face, but it doesn’t seem to throw her off – she's far too cheerful for her... current habitat. </p>
<p>“What can I get you guys?” </p>
<p>“I’m gonna get the pear and walnut salad with grilled chicken please,” Alexis smiles, then, when David crosses his arms and glares at her, “And he’ll have the Meadow Harvest smoothie.” </p>
<p>“Okie dokie, have it right out!” Twyla chirps, and then, before David even gets his mouth open to protest, she’s bounced away and disappeared into the kitchens. </p>
<p>David turns back to Alexis with his teeth already bared in a snarl, but he’s stopped cold in his tracks by the expression on her face. </p>
<p>It’s a look of <i>knowing,</i> quiet and certain, that’s like a punch to the stomach, and the only reason, the <i>only reason</i> he’s not furious with her, doesn’t throw it back in her face and storm out is because he knows she’s been here too. </p>
<p>There have been times in the past when <i>David</i> was on her side of the table, sat across from her completely terrified, because he could see the bones in her wrists and the way her skin had gone translucent around her temples, and because neither of them could remember the last time she ate something solid. </p>
<p>He’d done this same thing for her, back then. </p>
<p>Read about eating disorders in his spare time and talked to a nutritionist through a free, anonymous hotline and bought a sleek little blender cup in black and silver before sitting her down at his kitchen counter and pressing a smoothie into her hands. </p>
<p>“You don’t have to finish it,” she says softly, the same thing he’d said to her then. “Just start with a sip.” </p>
<p><i>Fuck.</i> </p>
<p>“Here you go guys,” Twyla says half a minute later as she puts a glass of greenish-purple glop down in front of him. “Let me know if you need anything else.” </p>
<p>David nods shortly as he tries to surreptitiously scrub the tears from the corners of his eyes. Twyla shares a few more chipper words with his sister before disappearing again, and Alexis turns her plate by a precise ninety degrees before fluffing her napkin over her lap. She toys with her knife and fork for a moment and there’s something novel in seeing her order a full meal instead of just a drink or a side, enough so that still David feels like he can breathe.  </p>
<p>Then she reaches across the table and squeezes his fingers in hers and nearly undoes all the progress he’s made towards keeping himself under control. </p>
<p>“Don’t be a baby David,” she says smartly, the other thing he’d said to her. </p>
<p>He scowls fiercely but snatches the glass up anyway, because the only other option is to throw it in her face the way she’d done to him that first time and he’s <i>still</i> mad about his Balenciaga sweatshirt. His stomach cramps and his palms are slick as he lifts the glass, the smell of the thing twisting in his gut, but he clenches his eyes shut and brings it to his lips anyway, and does what he knows he needs to do. </p>
<p>And then very nearly spits it out again. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” he coughs, grabbing for a napkin. “This is <i>disgusting,</i> what <i>is</i> this?!” </p>
<p>Alexis’ expression is a painful clash of hilarity and fear and regret, her eyes wide. </p>
<p>“I don’t <i>know</i> David; Twyla makes the smoothies!” she says with alarm. “They’re not <i>always</i> horrible, I mean...” </p>
<p>But she trails off because he’s laughing, a full, loud laugh that’s only a little bit hysterical and brings tears to his eyes. She waits him out, her eyes flicking between his face and the table as he gets himself under control again, but there’s a small, hesitant smile hovering around her mouth and that... that’s ok. </p>
<p>Scrubbing the back of his hands under his eyes, David clears his throat and picks the glass up again, taking a deep breath before tipping it back and chugging half of it in one go. Somehow it’s easier with it being gritty and gross than if it had been smooth and sweet and distinctly fruit-flavored, and he knows that doesn’t make any sense but he downs it anyway and he feels... a little bit better, despite the fact that it doesn’t exactly settle his stomach. </p>
<p>As he works his way through the rest of the smoothie, Alexis chatters happily about the college courses she’s just signed up for, working toward a degree in public relations. She eats her salad methodically as she does so, building careful bites onto her fork that hold just the right ratio of greens-to-goodies. He’s never seen her like this; eating with relish, talking with excitement about work to be done, and it hits him like a truck right there in a janky little café in the middle of Nowhere, Canada that she really <i>has</i> grown up. </p>
<p>He’d been scared of that, he realizes. </p>
<p>Scared that it wouldn’t be real, or that it <i>would</i> be, that she would be exactly the same person she always was or a completely different one he wouldn’t even recognize. </p>
<p>Instead he finds that she just <i>better,</i> a better person than she used to be on the way to being her best self, and his heart could burst with all the feelings trying to crash through his chest. </p>
<p>So of course he battens it all down, stuffs it away deep where it won’t leak out onto his face. </p>
<p>He scoffs and rolls his eyes, sips at his disgusting smoothie and just... tries to <i>bask</i> in the confidence and the happiness she’s exuding now like sunlight. </p>
<p>In the end Alexis clears her plate, and while David doesn’t finish the <i>entire</i> smoothie, he gets pretty damn close and he’s proud of that. His sister is too, if her face is any judge, and she tips her chin down as they wait for the bill to try to hide the little smile pulling at her face. </p>
<p>It doesn’t last – she sobers far too quickly – and he knows what’s coming even before she can say it. </p>
<p>“Why are you selling the gallery David?” </p>
<p>A really big part of him is glad that she asked here, in a public venue, surrounded by people he doesn’t know seated just far enough away that they won’t be able to easily overhear. It sort of forces him to keep himself together, to bite back the rush of emotion no longer being buried by the drugs and get it out without falling completely to pieces. Even as he’s opening his mouth he realizes that he <i>wants</i> to say it out loud, to share it with another person that he trusts. </p>
<p>“Sebastian was cheating on me,” he says, even though, at this point, that’s literally the least important, least painful part of the story. </p>
<p>Alexis doesn’t react to this news, which just confirms the sentiment. </p>
<p>“I caught him the morning of his show, so I didn’t do the walk through beforehand. He...” </p>
<p>He pauses, squeezing his eyes shut tight and breathing hard through his nose as he tries to control the rolling wave of nausea, to keep his smoothie down. </p>
<p>“He took a bunch of photos,” he finally says, and the <i>‘of me’</i> is implied and obvious, even though unspoken. “He blew them up and hung them in my gallery, in <i>Adelina’s...”</i> </p>
<p>Alexis reaches across the table and grabs both hands in hers, squeezing tight. </p>
<p>She’d loved Adelina too. </p>
<p>“I pulled the fire alarm,” he admits, and god, he’s still delighted by that. “They were maybe only up for ten minutes before they were running all over the place – the idiot still refuses to seal his prints. Something about letting living art breathe.” </p>
<p>Alexis’ thumb rubs over his knuckles and he’s more grateful that he can express that she doesn’t try to interrupt, because the next part is the hardest, and maybe the worst. </p>
<p>“Anyway,” he says gruffly, pulling his hands back, determined to get through the last of it. “When I called dad about the insurance to repair the water damage, he told me they’ve basically bought every patron and every piece of art that walked out the door so...” </p>
<p>A heavy beat of silence passes and he wants to disappear. </p>
<p>“David, I didn’t know.” </p>
<p>And well... </p>
<p>He hadn’t realized until that moment that that was the most important thing for her to say, the thing he most wanted to hear. </p>
<p>Sucking in a sharp breath, he presses his hand hard over his mouth and reels it back, shuts it down as hard as he can. </p>
<p>“I’m sorry that happened David,” she says. “It wasn’t right and it wasn’t fair; not what Sebastian did or mom and dad.” </p>
<p>He nods dumbly, because he <i>knows</i> that even if he doesn’t <i>believe</i> it, and because if he tried to talk he thinks he might just scream. </p>
<p>“Do you want to sue?” </p>
<p>David barks a shocked laugh, drawing a few eyes, but he can’t help it. </p>
<p>“Mom and dad?” he asks, amused by the mere thought. </p>
<p>“No, Sebastian,” she huffs, rolling her eyes. “You could do it David; revenge porn is illegal. I destroyed that sheik’s whole life that took those pictures of me down in Miami.” </p>
<p>David scrubs the <i>gonna-cry</i> tingles from his cheeks and chuckles, shaking his head. </p>
<p>“No, I’m good,” he says, and realizes with a shock that as far as that part goes, as far as <i>Sebastian</i> goes, he maybe is. “He deletes all the pictures and stuff right before a showing, like, ceremonially. There’s nothing left.” </p>
<p>He stumbles over that last bit, wondering if maybe he means more than... just the show. </p>
<p>“Well, let me know if you change your mind.” </p>
<p>She doesn’t say much more as they get up to leave, just hooking their elbows together again and pulling him in close. She waves to Twyla and a couple of other people, and he feels himself relax a little bit as the warmth of the afternoon sun seeps into his shoulders. Alexis turns them uptown and sort of snuggles up to his side, and it’s a relief to know that he’s not worrying her as much as he probably was yesterday. </p>
<p>“I don’t think I can go back to New York,” he says suddenly, as they cross the street to pass by the general store and head back toward the motel. </p>
<p>He hadn’t expected to say it and is stunned by how much he means it. </p>
<p>Alexis thinks for half a second, then shrugs her shoulders. </p>
<p>“Then don’t.” </p>
<p>And that... that changes things. </p>
<p>That simple, easy, casual answer opens up a hundred new doors that he hadn’t even realized had been staring him in the face, and he swallows hard around the fear that comes with them. He loved New York, <i>still</i> loves it in some ways, and hadn’t ever really considered leaving because where else would he go? </p>
<p>As Alexis guides him back down the sidewalk, he takes a deep breath and wonders for the first time if maybe he’s going to be ok. </p>
<p>It <i>is</i> a nice day for a walk.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0006"><h2>6. Chapter 6</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Soul mates run in families. </p>
<p>It’s a hereditary thing, something that people still only understand the bare basics of, but one of the few things you’re taught in your primary school sex-education classes between too-pink diagrams of human anatomy and horrifically embarrassing videos titled along the lines of <i>'Your Body and You: Puberty and all its Changes,'</i> they squeeze in a few facts like those. </p>
<p>If your parents are soul mates, or have soulmates out there somewhere, chances are pretty good that you have one too. </p>
<p>Patrick Brewer knows from childhood that his parents are soulmates. The gene runs all throughout his family tree, but he doesn’t really understand the impact it has on <i>him</i> until he’s thirty-two and stuffing duffle bags into his car like a kid crams comic books into a backpack, intent on running away from home for the very first time. </p>
<p>Only it’s not the first time, and Patrick’s not a kid anymore. </p>
<p>The thing to understand about the Brewers is that they don’t really talk. </p>
<p>Not out loud anyway, not explicitly. </p>
<p>It’s not done out of malice, not done purposefully to avoid difficult conversations, but it’s still a habit one tends to pick up on. As a family they show their love so often and so openly, easy and affectionate, that the need to talk about things like that, blatantly and directly, just isn’t there. Patrick knows his parents love each other, deeply and fully and completely, knows that the way they understand each other down to the very core can only come from being two halves of a complete whole, but he’s never outright asked them if they’re soulmates and they’ve never outright said. </p>
<p>Eventually he realizes that he’s always just assumed because he can <i>see it.</i> </p>
<p>That’s great for his parents, of course it is, but it also means that in all his life he’s never considered that maybe there’s a reason he and Rachel can never seem to make it work. </p>
<p>Well... no actually, that’s not fair. </p>
<p>He <i>has</i> considered that maybe there’s a reason they keep breaking up, but it was never that one. </p>
<p>That’s just a convenient excuse. </p>
<p>Instead he keeps stumbling along like a fool, breaking up with her one minute, getting back together the next, from the time she’d asked him to the Sadie Hawkins dance in the ninth grade to the day he broke her heart and told her that no, he couldn’t marry her actually, no matter what the ring he’d put on her finger suggested. </p>
<p>It’s the worst thing he’s ever done, feels rushed and panicked and desperate, but it had certainly been a long time coming, from the moment he’d proposed and the bottom had dropped out of his stomach. </p>
<p>“Patrick, what happened?!” his mother gasps as he steps back into his childhood home, a duffle bag slung over his shoulder. </p>
<p>He wonders what she sees on his face – he'd avoided his reflection in the hallway mirror as he staggered inside. </p>
<p>He means to reply, to respond like a grown man, a normal person, but he’s terrified of confessing his sins and feels like his whole world has turned inside-out without warning or reason and all that comes out of his mouth is a sob. </p>
<p><i>“Mom...”</i> </p>
<p>Patrick collapses into his mother’s arms like his knees have just given up, making himself small in order to fit into her shorter embrace. She wraps him up tight, her strength and the scent of her signature perfume familiar and comforting, and he cries into her shoulder without reserve or shame as she shushes him and pets his hair. By the time his father gets home twenty minutes later Patrick is red-eyed and exhausted, his throat sore, and he doesn’t feel any better at all. </p>
<p>“Is that Patrick?” his father calls, no doubt tripping over the shoes he’d left in the entryway. </p>
<p>“In here,” his mother calls back, pulling cups and spoons from cabinets and drawers for tea. </p>
<p>The kettle whistles just in time and she sets about pouring as his father comes in, his steps faltering in the doorway to the kitchen as he takes in the scene before him, his son sagging against the table, distraught, his wife puttering around anxiously with worry written all over her face. Luckily, his dad is just as good in a crisis as his mom is, if only in a different way, and he sits down across from Patrick without another word. The tension between them is too thick to cut even with a knife – worse than all the other times he’s broken up with Rachel, and he wonders if they can feel that too. </p>
<p>Patrick cradles his mug close to his chest, huddles over it like it can provide him with some kind of protection, and wishes he didn’t feel like he was dying. His chest is tight and his whole body aches, and he kind of feels like he did that one time he spent the whole weekend on a bender with a friend from college who was trying to help him ‘move on.’ He thinks that maybe this is what a panic attack is, but he feels too resigned for that, all his misery and guilt tangled up with relief and a sick sense of... wonderment. </p>
<p>“Mom? Dad?” he says slowly, still unsure and yet already certain of the answer he’s about to ask for. “How do you <i>know?”</i> </p>
<p>And oh god, it’s awful. </p>
<p>The heavy silence, the way his parents glance at each other, the way he’s suddenly crushed by the unbearable weight of pity and <i>knowing,</i> like they’ve just been waiting for the day that he finally figured it out. </p>
<p><i>“Oh sweetheart,”</i> his mom murmurs, reaching across the table to place her hands over his where he’s still clutching his mug like a lifeline, and the careful love in her tone sends a fresh wave of tears coursing over his cheeks. </p>
<p>“Son...” his father says cautiously, hesitantly, “If you have to ask... if you have to ask, she’s not it.” </p>
<p>Patrick’s breath hitches on a sob and his mom squeezes his hand, his father murmurs an apology. </p>
<p>“But you and mom fight,” he says desperately, reaching for... <i>something,</i> something he’s not even sure he wants.  </p>
<p>“We do,” his dad agrees. “All couples argue, even soulmates, but Patrick, we never leave. We never walk out, we never separate.” </p>
<p>“Once you find that person,” his mom says, “Once you’ve really found them? There’s no leaving them Patrick. They’re meant for you, <i>made</i> for you, in <i>every</i> way, even their flaws.” </p>
<p>“But I <i>love</i> Rachel,” he whispers, unable to lift his gaze from the table.  </p>
<p>He hadn’t even realized he was trembling until he sees the surface of his tea rippling in his white-knuckled grip. </p>
<p>“Of course you do my sweet boy,” his mom says, getting up to come around the table and wrap her arms around his shoulders from behind him. “Having a soul mate doesn’t mean that you can’t love anyone else. Lots of people don’t end up marrying their soulmates, or even ever meeting them at all, sometimes.” </p>
<p>“Then why does it feel so wrong with her?” he chokes miserably, his heart breaking as a fresh wave of tears stream down his face. </p>
<p>Clint Brewer stands and comes around the table, places one heavy hand on Patrick’s shoulder and squeezes warmly. </p>
<p>“Only you can answer that son,” he says softly, and then he goes, leaving Patrick to the attentions of his mother, the both of them knowing that Patrick will find him later. </p>
<p>He stays at the table of a long time, sniffling and sipping tea while his mother makes dinner. There’s a comfort in sitting quietly, without scolding or advice, just watching her move around to the low sounds of an 80’s soft-rock radio station turned down low. The hiss and sizzle of sausage and vegetables in a pan, the smell of simmering tomato sauce are all callbacks to his childhood, her homemade lasagna recipe one of the few that she’d made sure Patrick memorized before leaving home. It’s comfort-food at its finest, lovingly layered the night he’d flubbed his theater audition, and again the weekend he’d lost his first big baseball game striking out in the ninth. There’s something good in seeing it built tonight, but there’s something painful in it too. </p>
<p>Once it’s in the oven his mom runs her hand over his head, the shorter haircut Rachel preferred rasping under her palm, and it was irritating at the same time that it was comforting. Unsure what to do with himself, his whole chest aching, he manages to get to his feet and rinse his teacup, tucking it into the dishwasher before stepping into the bathroom to wash his face. He’s red-eyed and drawn, far too pale, and he can’t quite seem to catch his breath. He wonders again if this is what a panic attack feels like, but he’s never had them before and it doesn’t seem bad enough for that. </p>
<p>Patrick huffs a laugh – it feels bad enough, it feels like the worst thing he’s ever felt, and it’s all made worse by the fact that he’s glad he did it. </p>
<p>How can he be glad he did it? </p>
<p>The look on Rachel’s face when Patrick had finally told her, in a calm, collected tone that he couldn’t marry her, that he was sorry but he had to go, had to leave – it was <i>shattered.</i> That he could be so cold, in the middle of a heated, furious argument had felt like the nail in the coffin, that while she was standing there red-faced and tearful and shaking, he was still and quiet and certain. </p>
<p>Things had never gone like <i>that</i> before. </p>
<p>Of course, they’d never been engaged before, just dating, boyfriend and girlfriend not fiancés. </p>
<p>He wonders if maybe one day they can find their way back to friends, because he thinks he’s finally realized he doesn’t want anything more with her. </p>
<p>And that hurts. </p>
<p>It’s terrifying if he’s honest, and he doesn’t really know how to move on from this, to move forward. </p>
<p>He’s pretty sure he’s just imploded his entire life, and it <i>hurts</i> and it’s <i>awful,</i> but there’s also something so relaxed and relieved sitting underneath all of that that he thinks he might eventually be ok. </p>
<p>That he might eventually... heal. </p>
<p>As he pulls himself back together and carries his duffel upstairs to his old bedroom, puts his shoes in their proper place on the mat and hangs his jacket back on the hook where it had slid to the floor, he tries to think of it like a broken arm. He’d snapped his left ulna when he was fifteen, trying to save himself a nasty fall when he and some friends had tried to go tobogganing using the plastic lunch trays from the cafeteria. He remembers what that’s like, and if he can translate this emotional pain to that physical pain, he thinks maybe he can survive it. </p>
<p>This is violent and horrifically sharp, traumatic and aching, but he has to believe that with some support and attention, the pain will eventually dull. </p>
<p>Time heals all wounds right? </p>
<p>He just wishes he knew why. </p>
<p>Later, as he stuffs himself with enough hot, cheesy lasagna to make himself feel sick, he shrinks from the suspicion that he does know, underneath it all. Knows why it feels so wrong with Rachel, knows why they could never make it work. He hadn’t been surprised when his parents reassured him that people with soul mates sometimes never met them, lived loving, fulfilling lives with others. He’s seen that too, been taught that too, and so neither he nor Rachel had ever been particularly concerned about those genes running all through Patrick’s history. They’d been together for fifteen years despite knowing he probably had someone out there, had gotten <i>engaged</i> despite knowing he probably had someone out there. </p>
<p>It was never the potential soul mate that split them up and Patrick knows it, no matter what Rachel believes. </p>
<p>After dinner, Patrick helps his mom wash the dishes and talks with her about anything and nothing at all. She chatters about her garden and the book club she’d started with some of the other ladies in the neighborhood, and Patrick skirts questions about his job and his plans for playing sports in the summer. As evening falls and the house quiets, he starts to realize that he’s been unhappy for a long time and there’s a reason he doesn’t want to talk about his position with a moderately-sized stocks broker, or the fact that he’s slowly been isolating himself from his friends with no intentions to join the local baseball team this year at all. </p>
<p>Crying off any late-night tv, he hugs his mom goodnight and heads upstairs, changing into a pair of sweats and an old t-shirt. He can’t settle, doesn’t even try, so instead of getting into bed he curls up in a chair with a book and makes an attempt at reading. It’s a time-waster, a place-holder, because he knows he’s not going to actually absorb anything, but he knows his dad will be up any minute and he just needs to keep breathing until then. </p>
<p>What feels like a lifetime later – but is probably only ten or fifteen minutes – there’s a quiet door and his father steps inside. </p>
<p>“Hey kiddo,” he says softly, coming to stand just behind Patrick’s chair, leaning against the wall as if to look out the window. It’s all familiar - the way he’d extracted himself from the conversation earlier, leaving him to his mom, and now tucking himself in close enough for comfort while still feigning casualty, for both their sakes. “How you doing?” </p>
<p>Patrick coughs a laugh, half-hearted and a little bit bitter. </p>
<p>“Not great,” he says, then thinks a minute about why that is. “I think it’s real this time.” </p>
<p>Clint Brewer hums, waiting – patience has always been one of his strong suits. </p>
<p>“I just...” Patrick starts, before leaning forward to drop his face into his hands and groan. “Dad, I <i>can’t...”</i> </p>
<p>“Then you shouldn’t,” his father says simply. “Your partner should make you <i>happy</i> Patrick – that's all your mother and I want for you.” </p>
<p>“I <i>am</i> happy with Rachel,” he insists, not thinking about how his father had said <i>partner,</i> not <i>wife.</i> </p>
<p>“You <i>love</i> Rachel,” he corrects gently. “But Patrick, I don’t think you’re <i>happy</i> with her. She’s your best friend.” </p>
<p>“Then why can’t I make this work?” </p>
<p>Patrick’s father sighs heavily, and he feels like he did when he was a kid and he’d done something wrong, disappointed him, like he wants to scrunch up into a little ball and hide. </p>
<p>“There’s all kinds of love out there Patrick,” his father says kindly. “The kind of love you have for Rachel, it’s deep, and it’s real, but that doesn’t mean it’s the kind of love you’re looking for. You can’t fit a square peg into a round hole, no matter how much you force it.” </p>
<p>“But what if I don’t know what I’m looking for?” he whispers desperately. </p>
<p>His dad, chuckles, reaches down and squeezes his shoulder. </p>
<p>“You’ll know it when you find it kid. I promise.” </p>
<p>Patrick lunges to his feet and his father’s ready, catching him in the same strong, steady embrace he’s always freely offered to his son. He sobs against his shoulder, just once, holding him tight, before his dad leans back to run a hand over his hair and look him in the eye. </p>
<p>“Just because you and Rachel are good friends doesn’t mean you’d make good spouses,” he lays out gently. “And Patrick, that’s ok. Married people argue and rub each other the wrong way – hell, even soul mates do that. Lord knows I irritate your mother often enough. But Patrick, it’s never a <i>fight.</i> It shouldn’t feel <i>wrong.”</i> </p>
<p>“And it feels wrong with Rachel,” he concludes. </p>
<p>Sighing, he moves over to sit on the edge of the bed and rest his elbows on his knees, finding it difficult to drag his eyes up off the floor. A minute later his father sits down next to him, the bed dipping and his warm, rough hand rubbing comfortingly across his back. </p>
<p>“Everything will work out Patrick,” he says. “Get some sleep. It won’t fix everything, but it should help a little.” </p>
<p>“Thanks dad,” he mumbles into his hands, and his father pats his shoulder before getting up and slipping out the door, closing it silently behind him. </p>
<p>He hurts. </p>
<p>He feels hung over, his muscles aching and his heart beating just a little too fast. </p>
<p>Dropping back heavily onto the pillows, Patrick stares at the ceiling and prays for sleep, but it’s a long time coming.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0007"><h2>7. Chapter 7</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>It takes time, but David slowly starts feeling better. </p><p>After getting past the physical withdrawals of all the drugs he’d been on, he’s still haunted by a strange feeling of anxiety and unrest, dreaming about feeling... sort of devastated. He struggles to eat the way he knows he should, and exercise has never been a factor in his life, but he starts to take a few walks around town just to explore and actually finds himself enjoying the sun and the breeze. A week passes, and then another, and it gets easier to climb out of bed in the morning, to force himself to eat a yogurt or a piece of toast with his coffee in the morning when he pops into the café. </p><p>By the time he’s been in Schitt’s Creek for twenty-eight days, that surreal misery that’s been dogging his steps has dissipated. </p><p>In its place he feels... relief, and hope, and it freaks him out a little but he rolls with it. </p><p>It’s good to be near Alexis again. </p><p>She’s currently working afternoons as a receptionist for Ted’s veterinary clinic – a job that she is woefully underqualified for – but she’s also taking classes at a local community college and he’s so proud of her he can hardly think about it without puffing up and feeling all warm and prickly behind the eyes. She’s so different that she’d been, seems settled in a way he’s never seen before, and yet at the same time she’s still herself, still courageous and adventurous and inquisitive, and beautifully, painfully annoying. </p><p>They start having lunch together twice a week during her break, and it’s like they’d never been apart at all, bickering and insults and <i>oh-my-god-David-ew!</i> and the quiet understanding that they love each other, even if they never say it in so many words. She slowly convinces him to let her guide him through Café Tropical’s ridiculous menu, and he starts to <i>enjoy</i> eating again – crispy, salty french fries and shortstacks of buttermilk pancakes with blueberries and syrup – and the anxiety and the guilt slowly, slowly recede until he starts to feel like he can breathe again. </p><p>He’s left with decisions to make. </p><p>In the end it’s easier than he expects it to be. </p><p>He can’t go back to New York and that’s the end of that statement – he <i>can’t.</i> His gallery is sold and his assistant sends him the check, which he splits into three parts and doles back out again; one bit to his parents covering only what they’d originally put into the space, with no note or explanation attached, one bit deposited into his own savings account, which apparently he’s going to need now, and one bit sent right back to Elia, who agrees to oversee his apartment being packed up in return. When he directs her to have his belongings shipped to Schitt’s Creek instead of having them placed in storage, he realizes the decisions have already been made. </p><p>It seems too easy. </p><p>It seems too easy, and too quick, to pack up an entire life and move it somewhere else, to start over again. By the time he hits the two-month mark staying in a grubby little roadside motel he’d never been able to picture himself staying in, there’s nothing left of David Rose in New York City except a few bad memories in a few meaningless people's minds. With half his material possessions sold, including his place of work and his place of living, his debt to his father discharged once and for all, he has a decent-sized nest egg and a carefully curated collection of clothing to his name and nothing but time to figure out what to do with the rest. </p><p>He doesn’t want to leave. </p><p>That’s the part that scares him, he realizes. </p><p>All the places he’s been, all the things he’s seen and the cultures he’s experienced, all the conveniences he’d always thought he couldn’t live without, and in just a handful of weeks he’s settled for an entire lifetime’s less. A part of him is horrified by his new outlook – too easy and <i>far</i> too quick to change like he has – but a bigger part of him is almost sick with relief that things are finally, finally different. He’s <i>healing</i> in Schitt’s Creek, and as ridiculous as that sounds he can <i>feel</i> it. </p><p>He doesn’t have to try as hard to maintain the image he felt so necessary in New York, because he’s already the coolest person here and because no one really cares about anything like that, and it’s glorious. </p><p>He makes friends with Stevie, the pale, dark-haired receptionist who actually owns the motel, doesn’t just work there. She’s got the same dark sense of deadpan humor he does, and he thinks maybe she’s a little bit wounded underneath too, but just like him she’s become prickly and sarcastic and it’s marvelous. She doesn’t put up with his shit, doesn’t shoot him the occasional concerned looks Alexis does that still ride uncomfortably on his shoulders, and despite the difference in their backgrounds they have a lot in common. He trails her like a puppy, helping her out around the motel learning to make beds and wash sheets, and when she occasionally happens to find a joint beneath one of the beds, she’s not shy about sharing. </p><p>She’s not <i>nice,</i> and he thanks god for that. </p><p>Ted is nice, painfully so. He’s around more than David would like, simply because he’s so golden and perky and <i>cheerful</i> all the time, but it’s so obvious how much Alexis loves him that he can’t bring himself to do more than grumble. Despite the fact that he isn’t a <i>human</i> doctor, he still checks in on David for weeks after his arrival, and is more than a little stern about his consuming any drugs or alcohol after his recent binge. In his head David knows that probably makes sense and is probably what any doctor or any friend should advocate for, but wine and weed have never been problems or temptations for him, and he has no intentions to stop indulging in either. </p><p>He thinks maybe that’s addict logic, but he doesn’t think he’s an addict. </p><p>Oh, he has addictive tendencies, and he knows once he starts with the painkillers or the benzos or the party drugs that he quickly falls apart, but trading a few drags with Stevie in the hideous motel love-room actually helps sometimes. He's read about risk-reduction and marijuana as an alternative to treating anxiety with Prozac, and feels more comfortable than he feels about the idea of talk-therapy. He’s actually kind of proud of himself the first time he eats an entire large pizza over the course of three hours and one-and-a-half joints, and he laughs more with Stevie that night than he can remember doing over the last few years. </p><p>He heals. </p><p>Two months go by, then three, and he feels... settled here. </p><p>Somehow, he feels like maybe he could belong. </p><p>This weird little town with its weird little mayor, and all it’s weird little inhabitants - <i>who the fuck is Gwen anyway?!</i> - and yet somehow, he feels like he could fit. </p><p>Maybe he’s just weird too. </p><p>“Not this weird,” he mutters as he and Stevie browse through the General Store looking for an appropriate wine to bring to Ted and Alexis’ dinner party later that night. </p><p>“What’s weird?” she asks, reaching across him to grab a wrinkled box of cinnamon toast crunch and toss it into the basket hooked over her elbow. </p><p>“Um, the fact that there’s fungal cream next to the breakfast cereal?” he points out, his voice rising because really, he shouldn’t have to explain this. “This store is a disaster.” </p><p>“So what would <i>you</i> do with it?” she fires back, and it’s off-hand and distracted as she goes in search of laundry detergent, but the question sort of stops him in his tracks. </p><p>He wasn’t... </p><p>He didn’t mean... </p><p>It’s not that he hasn’t thought about it. He knows that eventually he’s going to have to find something to do with himself, if only so that he doesn’t go completely insane bumping idly around Schitt’s Creek. He’s careful with his money and knows eventually that’s going to become a problem regardless, but he hasn’t thought beyond the necessity, beyond eventually having no other choice but to work. </p><p>He hasn’t thought about <i>what,</i> or <i>where,</i> or <i>how</i> that work will happen. </p><p>Now here he is confronted with it just because of some stupid whiny complaint and Stevie calling him out for it. </p><p>There’s a sign in the window. </p><p>Over the next few weeks he’s haunted by the question, by the strange, new idea that maybe he <i>could...</i> do something for himself. Maybe start a business? He’d never really thought about it before; sure, he’d run his gallery and sold his art – or at least thought he had – but it’s different isn’t it? Selling <i>product,</i> finding it, branding it... </p><p>He <i>has</i> ideas, <i>good</i> ideas, but he’s hesitant. Even if his parents hadn’t been involved, even if his parents hadn’t been pretty much running his gallery on the sly, crushing his confidence in the process, he hadn’t been doing it on his own. The creative side, yes, he’d had total control over, but a lot of the math stuff, the numbers and the taxes, those had all been Elia’s job. He'd chosen her with that in mind, well aware of his own shortcomings. If he were to... do <i>anything</i> here, he’d need the help. </p><p>The fact that he’s occasionally started dreaming in strange grids like a spreadsheet just reinforce the understanding that in some areas he has no idea what he’s doing. </p><p>Take friends for example. </p><p>Yes, Alexis is his sister, but it’s so different interacting with her here. She's an adult now, completely and entirely, independent of him and independent of their parents. Having found her soulmate she’d become whole in a way he’d never seen – though that wasn’t to say that she hadn’t been complete before. She’s just... stable now, steady, and he’s learning how to interact with her on a level he never has before. It’s wonderful because he thinks he probably doesn’t have to worry any more, but it’s still incredibly hard too, because where Alexis goes, Ted follows. </p><p>And it’s not that he doesn’t <i>like</i> Ted either, ok, unnatural cheeriness and ridiculous puns aside. He thinks he’s actually kind of become friends with him too, in a way. It’s just that when he looks at Ted, no matter how hard he tries, the first thing he sees isn’t <i>Ted,</i> it’s Alexis’ soul mate. </p><p><i>She’d met him in the Galapagos.</i> </p><p>It shouldn’t matter but it does. A beautiful, exotic, island locale; she’d been on vacation with some celebrity or another and he’d been on some sort of animal-doctor exchange. The right circumstances at the right time, yes, that’s how it supposedly works, but Ted was originally from <i>Schitt’s Creek.</i> </p><p>Schitt’s Creek, a town David’s father had bought him some twenty-five years ago as a joke. </p><p>It’s cosmic failure, an ironic middle-finger from the universe. </p><p>David looks at Ted and sees Alexis’ soul mate, and he looks at Alexis <i>with</i> Ted and he sees hope. </p><p>It terrifies him. </p><p>So David turns to the only other person he cares about right now and naturally, messes it up. </p><p>It’s just, he’s not used to friends. Not the normal way, not how healthy people do it. He knows he likes Stevie, and knows she’s important to him, and he knows too that she’s actually very pretty. He’d like to blame the hook-up on the weed but he thinks it probably would have happened anyway. It’s nice enough in the moment, but it’s pretty clear that they both regret it in the morning, and for all of a week he panics and actually considers leaving again. She catches him staring at his suitcase open on the spare bed one afternoon and punches him hard, warning him off the idea with a passion he wasn’t expecting.  </p><p>It’s a shock, jarring and harsh, and he’s grateful for it. </p><p>He won’t go back. </p><p>There are pitfalls here, mistakes to be made, things he wants that he can’t have, but it’s worth it and he won’t go back. </p><p>He <i>can</i> do better, can <i>be</i> better, and when he somehow manages to fix things with Stevie he gets that much more confident in himself, that much more trusting of this place he’s ended up in. </p><p>That terrifies him more. </p><p>One night a while later, when most of a joint has been smoked and all of a pizza’s been eaten, he lays on his back with his feet propped against the wall above the pillows, staring up at the mirror mounted over the bed having something of an existential crisis. His mind is racing – slowly, thanks to the weed – but somehow still racing all the same and he marvels at the fact that he’s very nearly almost happy here.  </p><p>“I think I actually hated New York,” he hears himself say, the words coming out of his mouth quite suddenly and without him planning to say them at all. </p><p>He doesn’t realize they’re true until he hears them out loud, in his own voice. </p><p>Stevie’s head snaps around so quick David winces, and she stares at him dumbfounded and maybe even a little pleased. </p><p>“It’s just... I think I wanted to be that person,” he says, an explanation more for himself than for her. “That person, that <i>city.</i> Sophisticated, cool, there was the whole art scene... And I <i>did</i> want a soulmate...” </p><p>David feels the air between them grow heavy, but it’s warm and soft like a winter quilt and he doesn’t hate it despite the horrendous vulnerability he’d just exposed. He doesn’t talk about soulmates, doesn’t think about them, because despite the fact that his parents obviously are, and despite the fact that Alexis just recently found hers – so clearly the gene runs in the family – he’s never really been able to see it happening for him. That hurts, more than he’s ever willing to admit, even to himself, but now Stevie’s looking at him with the sort of loving expression on her face that only ever shows when she’s high, and he thinks maybe that’s ok. She rolls toward him to rest her head on his stomach, staring up at him as she scratches gently at his sweater over his heart. </p><p>“I always thought...” he continues, musing out loud as he admits to himself for the very first time how much he’d wanted that underneath it all, “I always thought that the kind of person who could love me would be the kind of person I could find there.” </p><p>Part of him has always known that’s why he’d stayed, in places that had only ever hurt his feelings. It had been a painful desperation, a bone-deep hope and a prayer that had made him cling to places like that, places like New York and Japan, because he’d been sure that the kind of person he wanted, the kind of person who would <i>want him back</i> would live in places like those. </p><p><i>Sophisticated, cool...</i> </p><p>But not nice. </p><p>Not caring. </p><p>And Ted, and Alexis, and even Stevie in her own way – Stevie, who tightens her fist in his sweater and curls in close – are all nice, and all care. </p><p>He’s not sure <i>when</i> his sister and her soulmate and the weird, sarcastic girl at the front desk had become friends, but he thinks it was probably around the same time that <i>can't</i> became <i>won't</i> and never going back to New York became <i>staying</i> in Schitt’s Creek.</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0008"><h2>8. Chapter 8</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Notes for the Chapter:</b><blockquote class="userstuff"><p></p><div class="center">
  <p>Happy New Year Yall!</p>
</div></blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Patrick breaks off his engagement on a Friday evening and submits his two-weeks' notice the following Monday. After a weekend spent holed up in his childhood bedroom with little but his own thoughts for company, he’s come to the realization that for a long time he’s been a passenger in his own life, despite his assertions that he’s a take-charge kind of guy. It’s a nauseating revelation but an important one nonetheless, and after quite a bit of agonizing and self-loathing he decides to make some very intentionally-drastic changes. </p><p>He can’t stay here. </p><p>Oh, it’s easy enough at his parents’ house. They mostly leave him to his own devices, allowing him to exist in their space and interact with them as an adult despite the fact that he’s moping around the house like a recalcitrant teenager. His dad cooks dinner and calls him down to the table every night, his mom runs his laundry with everyone else’s and leaves it folded in the basket, but otherwise they don’t baby him too badly. He feels... comfortable enough there he supposes, and he takes a very strange sort of comfort in living closely with them again – which he finds odd – but he knows he can’t stay here. </p><p>It’s just, this is <i>their</i> town, his and Rachel’s. They’d both grown up here, gone to school here, so it’s full of <i>their</i> friends and <i>their</i> places and <i>their</i> memories. It’s not as awful as it sounds – it's not like those memories are <i>all</i> bad, and certainly everyone is used to their on-again, off-again mess by now – but he feels like if he doesn’t leave for real, he’ll never break that pattern. This time, more than any of the others, he’s terrified that he’ll fall back into things again. </p><p>And that’s not fair to either of them. </p><p>He thinks maybe <i>she’s</i> realized that too. </p><p>She’s perfectly civil over text when he messages her to arrange a time to pick up the rest of his belongings. She tells him it’s ok, to give her some time and they can eventually get back to being friends, that she always suspected it might not work. She hints that it’s because she’s not his soulmate, that she’d always expected it would pull them apart – even says that she hadn’t been sure in her own heart that she could go through with it knowing one day his other half might show up – and he lets her believe that because he can’t honestly say that she’s wrong. </p><p>Whether it’s rationalization or not, it still hurts that it seems so easy this time, to see the break as <i>permanent.</i> At the same time it somehow soothes the gaping wound in his chest, and that’s... strange, but... nice. </p><p>He returns to the apartment that evening after filing his resignation with HR, only to find most of his belongings carefully boxed and waiting near the front door. After the wretched fight, the begging and pleading and the tears of only a few days ago, the stunning decision to dissolve the engagement in the first place, it all seems to have turned inside-out on him, to have gone strangely and irrevocably right. He feels like he’s finally starting out on the right path, like he’s got rocky but stable ground beneath his feet at last, and it scares him but it’s exhilarating at the same time. </p><p>Like... like standing at the top of a hiking trail, looking down.  </p><p>Scary, but... but beautiful. </p><p>After hauling his stuff down to his car, he comes back up and makes one last sweep of the apartment. He finds one of his old theater t-shirts tucked into the back of a drawer under Rachel’s ratty sweats and suspects it wasn’t overlooked by mistake, so he leaves it behind with all good will and a little bit of hope that eventually they <i>can</i> be friends again one day. He’s about to leave, double-checking the kitchen cabinets for his favorite tea mug, when an envelope on the counter next to the toaster catches his eye. His name is printed on the front in Rachel’s neat script, and as soon as he picks it up he knows what’s inside. </p><p>Patrick’s heart aches in his chest as he opens the flat and tips Rachel’s engagement ring out onto his palm. It’s a simple, solitaire diamond, and at the time he’d bought it he’d been more pleased with the fact that it was a fiscally responsible choice than anything else. He’d bought it knowing that she would have preferred an emerald or peridot, something green and square-cut, but instead he’d picked out the first easy ring that had come along, the first thing he’d seen after deciding that <i>this</i> was his choice, <i>this</i> was the way. </p><p>Placing it down in the center of the island, perfectly centered, he pulls out the letter that had been tucked inside along with it. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>------</p>
</div><p><b><i>Patrick,</i></b> </p><p>
  <b>
    <i>
      <s>We could have been great together you know. I love you so much, and I know you love me. Just because you have a soulmate out there, it doesn’t mean anything. We could have made it work, I would have made it work...</s>
    </i>
  </b>
</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>------</p>
</div><p>Patrick sighs, his heart sinking as his eyes begin to sting. </p><p>The strikethroughs are harsh and heavy, pressed into the paper so hard they nearly break through, deep lines he can follow with his fingertips, but the words are still legible, and he knows what it means that Rachel hadn’t gone for a new piece of paper, that she had <i>wanted</i> him to still read them. He can feel her frustration, her anger, her fear all coming through, as surely as he can feel the stroke of each letter. She had wanted him to read it, to see it, but she wanted him to know she was taking it back too. </p><p>Swallowing hard, he continues reading on down the page, the rest quite obviously written later, in a smoother, easier hand, less stained with tears and not as shaky, not scribbled out. </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>------</p>
</div><p>
  <b>
    <i>You may not be ready to read this, and to be perfectly honest, I wasn’t entirely ready to write it. I’m angry, I’m scared, I’m <span class="u">hurt</span> Patrick, but I want you to understand that I don’t hate you. I <span class="u">need</span> you to understand that I don’t hate you. For whatever reason the universe decided that I’m not the one for you. I think we could have fought that, could have been... happy enough.</i>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>But I guess happy <span class="u">enough</span> isn’t... isn’t exactly what anyone should be shooting for huh?</i>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>I hope you find your happy Patrick. Whatever that is, <span class="u">whoever</span> that is, I hope you find your happy, ecstatic, amazing, incredible, wonderful, fantastic future.</i>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>I hope I do too.</i>
  </b>
</p><p>
  <b>
    <i>Before any of this we were still friends. I’d like to have that back again someday. Not yet – I know neither of us are ready for <span class="u">that</span> yet – but... someday.</i>
  </b>
</p><p><b><i>I wish you well Patrick. I wish you luck. I hope you find your soulmate, and, if not, I hope you find someone who’s right for you.</i></b> </p><p>
  <b>
    <i>I’m not sure why I wasn’t, but I don’t think you were wrong.</i>
  </b>
</p><p><b><i>Love still,</i></b> </p><p><b><i>Rachel</i></b> </p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>------</p>
</div><p>He can’t breathe. </p><p>Patrick isn’t certain that he’s been having panic attacks over the last few days, but he’s pretty sure that’s what’s happening to him now. He’s crying, tears running down his face, sobbing just a little bit as he tries to catch his breath, and the letter rattles his hands are shaking so hard. His chest is tight, his mind racing, and he’s caught up in a circling whirlwind of <i>what-if,</i> of terror and worry and everything unknown ahead of him. Gulping for air, he fists his hands a few times before running his fingers through his hair, forcing himself to feel the floor under his feet and to read through the letter one more time, Rachel’s words a warning but also a benediction, a reassurance that not everything has gone horribly wrong, not <i>everything</i> has ended. </p><p>By the time he gets through it – the letter and the panic – he's laughing and it’s only a little bit hysterical. </p><p>Strangely enough it feels cleansing too somehow, so he carefully folds the letter back into the envelope, seals the ring back inside, and tucks it into his wallet. </p><p>Later that night, when he’s back in his childhood bedroom, tucked into the new queen that had replaced the old twin when it was converted to a guest room, he runs his fingers around and around the ring, miserable over the fact that he already knows exactly where he can pawn it and exactly how much he can recoup. He wishes Rachel would have kept it but that’s a selfish wish, to save himself the shame of almost having planned this ahead of time. No, he’ll swallow that shame, and he won’t do her the dishonor of asking if she’s sure. </p><p>Instead, he grabs his phone off the nightstand and – for now – texts her two simple words. </p><p>
  <b>Thank you.</b>
</p><p>He doesn’t get a response, but he doesn’t expect one. </p><p>He thinks he’s already been given more than he deserves. </p><p>For the rest of the week, he keeps his head down and does what he’s supposed to, goes through the motions and keeps to a routine. He gets up at five-thirty, hits the gym for an hour, lets his mom feed him breakfast and pack him a lunch, and makes it to work by eight. He trudges through the day, tying up loose ends and passing things on to his colleagues, avoiding questions about what he plans to do next, and then, when the work is done, he heads home to change into his work-out gear again and hit the hiking trails. </p><p>It’s all repetition and physical exertion, in the hope that at the end of the day, when he finally lays his head down, he can sleep. </p><p>It doesn’t really work. </p><p>The next weekend he accompanies his mom to the grocery store, mostly just to get out and do something, even if it is just errands. They pick up all the fixings for homemade spaghetti and meatballs, as well as the raspberry ripple ice cream his dad likes, then rush through the check-out in order to avoid one of their more gossipy neighbors that his mom had spied in the cereal aisle. Patrick laughs at her for it, unexpectedly lighthearted in knowing that he isn’t afraid of becoming gossip himself this time, and earns himself a chuck on the shoulder for his troubles. </p><p>It already doesn’t hurt quite as much. </p><p>He stews in a bit of guilt over that as he helps his parents roll out the meatballs later that night, the smell of tomato sauce simmering away thick in the air. After washing his hands he excuses himself up to his room, where he does some more endless introspection while clicking around on indeed.com looking for job openings. It’s terrifying to him that he’s gone and quit his job without a backup – really for the first time in his entire life – but it’s exhilarating too and he’s slowly coming to accept that actually doing the things that scare him is healthy and exciting and maybe a part of growing and becoming a better person. </p><p>Doesn’t mean that this was the smart, responsible decision, or that clicking on a local want ad out of a nauseating mixture of anxiety, intrigue, boredom, and a little bit of apathy is something that he’s proud of. </p><p>Business consultation... </p><p>It’s a vague description, but the pay seems decent and weirdly enough there’s a corresponding offer of a room for rent if needed. He’s never heard of Schitt’s Creek, but he laughs out loud when he reads the name, for what feels like the first time in a long time, and a quick Google search shows him that it’s far enough away to give him some breathing space but not so far that he can’t make a weekend trip home if he chooses. </p><p>His fingers hesitate over his keyboard, but what has he got to lose anyway.  </p><p>Firing off his resume and a brief cover letter, he shuts down his laptop and makes it back downstairs in time for spaghetti. </p><p>There’s a response waiting for him before he goes to bed. </p><p>Six days later, his father is helping him wedge boxes into the back of his car, a favor Patrick is happy to accept at the cost of listening to him humble-brag about his Tetris skills. He’d told them a little bit about what he plans to do and where he plans to go after two hour-long video interviews with an excessively cheerful man named Ray, who is about to become his both his boss and his landlord (roommate, Ray insists, roommate Patrick), and they seem a little nervous about his leaving but have thus far kept it under wraps. Now, listening to his dad chatter a mile a minute, he wonders if he actually has something to say. </p><p>“We’re just worried about you,” he explains, when Patrick finally confronts him with a quiet look and a quirk of his brow. </p><p>“Mom always worries,” Patrick says with a breathy chuckle, shoving the last box into place and dropping the hatch. </p><p>“Sure,” his dad acknowledges, before shoving his hands into his pants pockets – a regrettable habit that Patrick had picked up himself over the years. “But lately I’ve notice you... haven’t seemed entirely yourself.” </p><p>“I... yeah,” Patrick says slowly, thinking back on some of his decisions these past few weeks. “I mean... there’s been a lot going on.” </p><p>“Yes. But you’ve seemed... anxious sometimes.” </p><p>“I <i>have</i> been,” Patrick says, a little too sharply as his defenses come up. </p><p>Why wouldn’t he be anxious - look what he’s been going through.... </p><p>“And that’s perfectly understandable,” his father says easily, his calm, easy tone smoothing down his raised hackles as quickly as they’d risen. “But then you’re fine again.” </p><p>Patrick freezes, blinks, stunned by such a simple, silly statement. </p><p>Of course he’s been fine again, what... </p><p>“It just seems like you’ve been having some mood swings lately,” his dad says, casually like it doesn’t mean anything, like he’s not hinting... </p><p>“I...” </p><p>But he can’t finish because all the breath goes out of him. </p><p>Heart hammering, Patrick drops his ass down on the bumper, putting his head in his hands. His mind races as he stares at the pavement between his sneakers, very suddenly second-guessing every single thing he’s done in the last year.</p><p>As little as people understand how soulmates work, it’s generally understood that when you’re ready, or at least <i>almost</i> ready, you start to sort of... pick up on what your other half is going through, that you can get a sense of how they’re feeling or if they’re in distress. He recalls feeling sick, almost hungover when he’d first broken it off with Rachel, remembers each flash of flighty, panicky uncertainty that hadn’t felt like him at all before his more typical calm rationality had settled in. He’s swamped by all those heavy feelings of right and wrong, all those intuitions that have been nearly haunting him, thinks about how everyone says that the closer you get to meeting your <i>person,</i> the more often and more intensely you... </p><p>“Have you started dreaming yet?” </p><p>Patrick barks a laugh, hysterical and a little cracked. </p><p>He's hardly slept at all these past few weeks, but those few hours he has managed? </p><p>Every moment is a dream – simple, everyday interactions, watching himself do things he’s done a thousand times before, and every single one of them in black-and-white. </p><p>Hand over his mouth, Patrick looks up at his father with wide eyes, feeling a little wild and lost. His father’s shoulders are loose, his posture casual and his face open, but there’s a hope and an importance hanging on to his words that can’t be denied, just as Patrick’s stunned silence can’t be either. </p><p>Smiling down at him, Patrick’s father extends his hand, passing him his keys. </p><p>“Well then,” he says, a soft sort of smile on his face. “Sounds like it’s time for you to get on to the next thing.”</p>
  </div></div>
<a name="section0009"><h2>9. Chapter 9</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>David feels strangely at ease as he prepares to take over the lease for the General Store. It doesn’t make any sense – he knows that – and other people are starting to take notice. Alexis had side-eyed him during their most recent lunch and awkwardly asked if he was maintaining his relative sobriety, while conversely Stevie had demanded to know who else he was getting his weed from than her and why she hadn’t been invited to share. He’s snappish and scowly when he tells them both to eat glass, that he hasn’t has so much as a polar bear shot in weeks while he focuses on getting done what needs to get done, but he’s noticed his apparent change in personality himself and has no explanation. </p>
<p>By all rights he should be freaking out. He was disappointed when the town council had voted against him in favor of Christmas World, despite his owning the town, but not terribly surprised. Later, when things fell through and Ronnie brought him the opportunity, he’d been elated. In his head he knows that there are a lot of things he doesn’t know how to do and a lot of reasons he should be worried, but he can’t seem to find it in him to actually <i>feel</i> it in his chest or deep down in his bones where his anxiety and self-deprecation live. </p>
<p>It takes him a long time to put two and two together, and he very nearly doesn’t. </p>
<p>When he does he certainly doesn’t <i>believe</i> it. </p>
<p>The rapid changes in mood, the moods that don’t fit, the general calm he’s been feeling in a circumstance he wouldn’t normally be calm in... </p>
<p>And the dreams. </p>
<p>The dreams are what really clinch it, because David doesn’t know anything about Excel. </p>
<p>“Did you share dreams with Ted before you met him?” David asks, sudden and abrupt and awkward, too loud even over the dull noise and chatter of the café. </p>
<p>Alexis blinks at him surprised, her mouth open as she tries to catch up with the shift in conversation where David had interrupted her story about... something. </p>
<p>“I think I did,” she says slowly, watching him with bright, suspicious eyes. “I don’t think I realized it till later.” </p>
<p>“How <i>did</i> you though?” he asks, because that’s the crux of it. “Like, how did you <i>know?</i> How were you <i>sure?”</i> </p>
<p>“Well I wasn’t David!” she says, very nearly a whine. “I just thought I was having weird, stupid dreams about animals. They were smoking so much patchouli on that yacht and mixed with all the essential oils I wasn’t feeling well and...” </p>
<p>“Animals though?” he interrupts, before she can go off on a tangent. </p>
<p>Alexis doesn’t like animals, to the point where she mostly pretends they don’t exist. </p>
<p>“Yeah, like, cute little dolphins, and these little, colorful fish, and these <i>huge</i> turtles,” she says, holding her hands up under her chin like that makes any kind of sense and also somehow imparts how cute said animals were. “Then later when I found out Ted was a vet and was working with them on his little Galapagos vacation it made <i>so much</i> sense.” </p>
<p>“Yes, but that was later,” he says distractedly, feeling agitated. “When you met him, like, right when he pulled you out of the water and you saw him for the first time, did you...” </p>
<p>He trails off, embarrassed, not only because soulmates and their stories are private, intimate things. Alexis’ expression is wounded now and makes him want to get up and leave, but he’s only finished half his stack of blueberry pancakes and he swears to himself that that’s the only reason he stays put. </p>
<p>“I... don’t know how to describe it David,” she says softly, sadly. “Could I tell? Yes, absolutely, but... I can’t explain <i>how.</i> I just <i>did.</i> It’s like... it’s like I lived my whole life seeing everything in black and white, only feeling half of anything around me, and then when I saw him, and he touched me...” </p>
<p>Her gaze goes far away, her face soft, and David feels the strong and uncomfortable urge to hug her. </p>
<p>Alexis blinks, smiles to herself – a small, private thing – then reaches across the booth and squeezes his hand. </p>
<p>“You’ll know David,” she says simply, hope in her eyes. “I promise.” </p>
<p>Heart beating just a little too fast, breathing just a little too hard, David tosses down his fork and groans into his cupped palms. </p>
<p>“But <i>when?”</i> he demands, because now that he knows he can’t ignore it, and there’s a part of his brain that’s obsessed and excited and terrified. “Like, how long were you dreaming before...” </p>
<p>“Oh my god David!” Alexis growls, stabbing at her glazed (read: frozen) salmon. “I don’t <i>know.</i> I didn’t time it – why are you...” </p>
<p>And he can practically see it click in her brain, though how it hasn’t already he can’t imagine. </p>
<p>“Oh my god,” she whispers, a brilliantly bright smile creeping across her face as she brings shaking fingers up to cover her mouth. “Wait! Oh my god, David? David are you...” </p>
<p>“I don’t know anything about Excel,” he grumbles, crossing his arms over his chest and staring at the little puddle of syrup creeping its way toward the edge of his plate. “Or - ugh - <i>baseball.</i> What... How could someone like that want...” </p>
<p>“Oh come on David, look at me and Ted,” Alexis scoffs flippantly, taking a bite of her side-salad. “I do <i>not</i> want a puppy ok, and he like, doesn’t know <i>anything</i> about social media influencing, poor thing. But it works, and do you know why?” </p>
<p>“Endless positivity on his part and endless patience on yours?” he huffs. </p>
<p><i>“No.</i> It works because we’re <i>not</i> the same. I mean, can you imagine me dating someone just like me?” </p>
<p>David feels himself pale and go cold. </p>
<p>“Worse than that,” Alexis continues, like she hasn’t just given him nightmare fuel for life, “Can you imagine dating someone just like <i>you?</i> It would never <i>work</i> David. Your soulmate isn’t supposed to be the <i>same</i> as you, just... <i>right</i> for you. Like... like two little puzzle pieces. They have to have different sides to fit together.” </p>
<p>And that... </p>
<p>Well. </p>
<p>He won’t say it’s perfect because it’s not, and he won’t say it’s beautiful because it’s Alexis, but... but it’s pretty close. </p>
<p><i>“Ugh, what</i> David?” she yips, pawing at her curls the way she does when she’s nervous, but he’s staring and his eyes are stinging and he can’t swallow around the ache of his heart trying to escape out his mouth. </p>
<p>Clearing his throat harshly, his picks his knife and fork up and goes back to his pancakes. </p>
<p>“Nothing.”</p>
<p></p><div class="center">
  <p>
    <b>XXX</b>
  </p>
</div>Ray turns out to be a delight in a far-too-much kind of way.<p>He starts talking as soon as Patrick steps out of his car, literally meeting him in the driveway, and doesn’t stop until he bids him goodnight around 11pm. In between he helps carry in all of the boxes from the car, gives him an extensive tour of the house which not only includes Patrick’s floral-papered bedroom but Ray’s as well, and feeds him two helpings of salisbury steak he’d made himself especially for the occasion. He and his mustache are incredibly cheerful and enthusiastic and if Patrick weren’t physically and emotionally exhausted he might appreciate it more, but in the end he collapses on top of his sheets with his jeans and shoes still on and doesn’t wake up for another eight hours. </p>
<p>Lucky for him, because Ray wakes him up the next morning by hollering ‘knock-knock’ before promptly coming inside. </p>
<p>Somehow he ends up tricked into having breakfast with his new employer before anything else. He’s not sure Ray actually slept the night before because by the time he trips downstairs at 7:05 there are several types of fresh muffins sitting out on the counter in addition to a spinach and mushroom quiche. They eat together at the table, Ray carrying the conversation as he apologizes profusely for having to be out for the day on a... photo shoot? Maybe? He’s not really sure – he’s beginning to realize that Ray has his fingers in far more pies than he’d originally thought. </p>
<p>After about twenty minutes of being assured that he’s welcome to go anywhere and use anything in the house, Patrick promises Ray that he’s not offended he won’t be here and explains that he only plans to unpack and settle in for a bit before venturing out to anything more adventurous. It takes another fifteen for Ray to get out the door, but he’s back through it having forgotten his keys three seconds later. Patrick gets a clear flash of his near future and chuckles to himself as he heads back upstairs. </p>
<p>After a long shower and a fresh change of clothes – the door securely locked despite Ray’s technically being gone – Patrick remakes the bed with his own, less starchy sheets and comforter and starts unpacking. Clothes go into the closet and the drawers, books go onto the shelf, and a few boxes stay sealed and tucked against the wall. Looking at them should feel daunting, like a task left undone and unable to be done, but instead it feels like possibility, like opportunity. He won’t be here at Ray’s forever, but he’s not going back home either, all his worldly possessions minus the shitty couch he’d sold before coming down right here with him, not at his parents or in storage. </p>
<p>It feels good. </p>
<p>He finishes up around three and heads downstairs for a sandwich, figuring a peanut butter and jelly might be his safest option after getting a look at Ray’s fridge. It’s very well organized – full of stacks of creepily opaque, matching Tupperware that he’s not brave enough to open. Eating over the sink, he washes the knife and puts it back in the drawer before heading back upstairs and shooting a quick text to his parents, letting them know that he’s still alright and feeling pretty pleased with himself. </p>
<p>Not that he says that in so many words – he still did a pretty terrible thing – but he’s starting to feel like it’s going to be possible to move beyond that, completely. He feels like an ass for feeling that way, but after his dad had pointed out the (very obvious) symptoms he’s been exhibiting of Soul Sickness, there’s been an elation hiding in the depths of his chest that he simply can’t deny. </p>
<p>This, all this, it should feel like being buried, a building coming down on him, and instead he feels like he’s finally been pulled out of the whirlpool he was drowning in. </p>
<p>He takes a nap and he dreams of an empty commercial space, full and warm despite being washed in shades of grey and barren of anything at all. </p>
<p>He spends the next three days acclimating himself to Ray, Ray’s house, and the confines of Schitt’s Creek. It seems to be a typical small town, almost everyone polite and solicitous. He frequents the local grocery, tries out the Café Tropical, and even swings by townhall to check out the town bulletin board. Ray introduces him to the Mayor and his wife and a few of the local residents, he puts his name down for upcoming baseball tryouts, and tries out a nearby hike one morning in an attempt to get back to something he used to really enjoy. </p>
<p>It feels fast, and it feels like a lot, but it feels <i>good.</i> </p>
<p>A new week starts and he puts a routine into action – completing a brief set of calisthenics in his room before showering and joining Ray for breakfast. From there he heads to the desk tucked away in the corner of Ray’s front room and dives into the process of sorting and filing the stacks of paperwork waiting for him there. Sure enough, Ray is engaged in about a dozen small businesses too many, but he keeps meticulous records even if they are a bit disjointed. It takes some time but he gets everything cleaned up and where it needs to go, coding hard copy to electronic copy as he does so. The spreadsheets help him make sense of the mess and settle him in a way that little else does, and by the time he’s got it cleared several days later, he’s feeling good – about himself and about the new life he’s building. </p>
<p>“I have a couples’ photo shoot tomorrow Patrick and it seems I’ve overbooked,” Rays calls from the couch as he heads to bed. “Would you mind taking my second appointment?” </p>
<p>“Um, I’m not sure I’m much of a photographer,” he hesitates, one foot on the bottom stair. </p>
<p>“Oh no,” Ray laughs, waving him off. “I’m sure you’re not. No, I have an appointment for a small business incorporation.” </p>
<p>Patrick, who’s cocked his head in confusion – not sure if he should be offended or not – straightens with interest. </p>
<p>“Small business?” </p>
<p>“Yes, David Rose leased the old General Store,” Ray says, like Patrick should know what that should mean. “It should be quite interesting – he certainly is a character.” </p>
<p>Patrick bites back a grin – if <i>Ray</i> considers this David Rose a character he can only imagine what he’s going to be like.  </p>
<p>“Sure Ray, no problem,” he says by way of answer, already sketching out what needs to be done in his head. “I’ll have everything ready.” </p>
<p>After a prolonged goodnight and a quick brush of his teeth, Patrick crawls under the covers and lets go of a long breath, musing over the changes he’s made over the last month. He knows he should be focused on his appointment tomorrow, but instead he basks in the feeling of just... anticipation. Excitement. </p>
<p>Neither of which... makes sense. </p>
<p>Patrick tucks his hands behind his head and closes his eyes, tries to remember everything he’d been taught about Soul Sickness in school, all those little signs that everyone knows about but don’t seem to recognize until it’s too late. </p>
<p>Sharing each other’s dreams. </p>
<p>Feeling each other’s emotions. </p>
<p>The story goes that it’s called Soul Sickness because your soul is actually sick, that when you’re finally ready to meet your Soul Mate you start... <i>yearning.</i> </p>
<p>It feels too intense, too dramatic, because Patrick doesn’t necessarily feel like something is missing, but thinking about where he was a month ago, he can definitely say that he did. He might feel better now, but is that only because he’s finally moving forward, moving <i>toward</i> something? </p>
<p><i>Or someone?</i> </p>
<p>There’s no real clear timeline for when it starts, no guaranteed list of things to expect, other than <i>soon</i> and <i>everything.</i> Thinking about it, that moment of joy when the world opens up, the flood of sensation that both his parents described now that they’re finally all talking about these things, is thrilling and terrifying in equal turns, and there’s some lingering guilt and frustration somewhere in all of that that maybe Rachel was right, maybe it <i>is</i> just that she wasn’t his soulmate and he’s finally ready to acknowledge that. He suspects his lack of control over the whole process is really what’s irking him, and decides that since he can’t change that he might as well enjoy the anticipation. </p>
<p>As he finally starts to drift off Patrick wonders what she’ll be like, when he’ll meet her. </p>
<p>That night he dreams of sweaters and skirts, all in black and white.</p>
  </div></div>
</body>
</html>